


Bad Medicine

by Teragram



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Falling In Love, First Time, Hell Trauma, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-05-30 23:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6446782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teragram/pseuds/Teragram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is struggling with his memories of hell and with his growing attraction to Castiel. Sam and Bobby are concerned about his drinking and enlist the angel's help to stage an intervention. But Castiel doesn't think that alcohol is Dean's problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a story in the Supernatural fandom. I welcome any pointers.

Hell changes everyone, and it had changed Dean Winchester. Standing in Bobby Singer’s kitchen, his back against the counter, he downed a series of heavy-handed whiskeys then grabbed a beer from the fridge. When he strolled into the living room Bobby jabbed a stubby finger at the map on his desk, hitting Brandon, South Dakota. Twenty minutes away, tops.

“You boys could be looking at as many as three demons.”

Sam checked his watch. “And you need the artifact by midnight to complete the ritual?”

Dean drank. Lately, every mission had a time crunch, and it was demons on every channel. He moved a stack of books from a chair to the floor and sat, flinging his boots onto a worn footstool with a satisfying whump.

“Yep.” Bobby motioned to the eleven magical herbs and spices cluttering his desk. “I’ll git everything set, but if you aint’ back by midnight I might as well be making potpourri here.”

“It’s a tight timeline,” Sam said. He looked anxiously at his brother. “Maybe we should bring Castiel in on this.”

“No!” Dean slammed his beer on the chair arm, bringing foam up the neck of the bottle. “No heavenly hall monitor. We do this on our own.”

Bobby and Sam gave him bitchface in stereo, but he didn’t care. Cas was too distracting. Just last week, while routing a nest of vamps, Dean had caught himself admiring how Cas looked with blood on his face. The dark spray from a beheaded bloodsucker had spattered his pale skin and Dean had wanted to—well, he’d just say that the urges he’d felt in that moment weren’t anything he’d done outside of Hell. And Hell was where those cravings belonged, not in some dingy vamp nest, or stealing glimpses in the Impala’s rearview mirror as they fled the scene, and not in the shitty hotel room where he’d quickly drank himself into unconsciousness. Dean told himself that thoughts like this were a hangover from his time in Hell and he needed to ride it out. But he longed to grab Cas by the neck, smash him against a wall, tear off that stupid suit and—Dean felt the Impala drift into the wrong lane and redirected his focus. Right. Driving. On a job.

As they hurdled along I-90 Dean wondered if some part of him had never left Hell. Maybe forty years in The Pit with Alistair had rewired his brain. Memories of that smooth demonic voice came when he least expected it. But Alistair was dead, so maybe the voice was his own and he was too chickenshit to admit it.

What he could admit was that he was being a lousy friend to Cas. The guy had sacrificed everything for them—hell, he’d freakin’ died—and the least he deserved was a sympathetic ear when it came to his God issues. He was going through some kind of angel adolescence and Dean knew better than most how it felt to have an absent father. But the last time they’d tried to have buddy-bonding time it had turned into a staring contest and Dean had slapped a friendly hand on his shoulder and leaned forward just a little, and Cas had tilted his head. The moves were First Kiss 101, and with Sam out of the motel for at least four hours it begged to be more than just a kiss. And then Dean pictured everything that might entail, and the thoughts hit him like a sledgehammer to the groin. He’d bolted for the bathroom and stayed there until he emerged to an empty room.

It wasn’t that Cas was a dude. At least, he didn’t think that was it. One of the perks of being a hunter, of knowing that any night might be his last, was the freedom to live in the moment. Theoretically, anyhow. It wasn’t like he’d put that to the test. If he didn’t count The Pit—and why the hell should he?—then he’d never even kissed a guy. But there was a first time for everything.

Things got weirder when Dean considered that he hadn’t been attracted to Jimmy Novak. It wasn’t homophobia or whatever, like Sam would say. Dean was fine with people being gay. He just wasn’t. And if called upon he could produce a string of sexually satisfied women to testify to that. Sure, Jimmy was easy on the eyes, but when Dean looked at him all he saw was Cas’ absence. Logically, he knew he was looking at the same body, but Cas looked more…he didn’t wanna say anything as mushy as beautiful, but whatever word he was looking for, it was in the same ballpark.

With any other work-affecting situation Dean would have broken down and finally asked for Sam’s advice. His eyes flickered right to where his brother was folded into the passenger seat. But Sam was wearing his ‘disappointed in you’ face, all pinched lips and wrinkled forehead. Dean saw enough of that look already, he didn’t need a lecture on how wrong it was to want to defile an angel of the Lord.

The fact that Cas was an angel wasn’t the deterrent it should be either. He’d slept with Anna fast enough. Of course it helped that her vessel was a hot chick. If Cas had a female vessel he’d probably have made a move ages ago. But he didn’t. He’d shown up wearing a religious salesman who was probably as straight as the road from Bismarck to Fargo. Dean chewed absently at the dry skin on his bottom lip. Would he even be having this issue if Cas’ vessel looked like Zachariah? That was a tough one. The fact that his answer was a strangled ‘Maybe?’ didn’t help.

Of course the thing that really brought his bacon cheeseburgers up for an encore was what he imagined doing with Cas, and the fact that it bore more resemblance to being with Alistair than it did to being with Anna. Maybe that was because Alistair had given torture a slimy sheen of romance. His first time on the rack Alistair had held him close and sang, “Heaven…I’m in Heaven…and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak….” It was creepy, obscene, and effective. He supposed that should have told him something about demon humor.

Since his almost-kiss with Cas Dean had tried to keep his time with the angel purely PG, but whether they were eating in a diner or watching a movie on a motel television, his mind kept slipping into ‘R for Extreme Violence’ territory. Dean told himself that this weird mix of aggressive sexual feelings were just his body’s messed up way of saying ‘thanks for saving me from Hell,’ but he was pretty sure it went further than that. He’d had forgotten what it was like to have a pure thought when it came to Cas.

He drowned his thoughts in scotch, but that came at a price, and tonight the price was slow reflexes. And those got hunters dead. The warehouse in Brandon was dark and smelled like rust and blood. The black-eyed bastard he was fighting was strong and fast, and it knocked the Kurdish knife from his hand with a clatter and gripped him by the throat. The demon had the advantage of height and weight and it lifted Dean until his boots barely grazed the floor. If it had been intent on killing him outright it would have succeeded. But like so many of its kind, it craved attention.

“Dean Winchester, eh?” It squeezed his neck, breaking the blood vessels in his skin, then leaned in like a lover, and Dean could smell its rancid breath. “They were right about you downstairs. So pretty.” The demon licked him from jaw to hairline, and Dean flinched, but couldn’t turn his head away. “Your meatsuit would look great on me.”

Dean gave a pained smile and used the last of the air in his lungs. “You couldn’t pull it off like I can.” His vision began to blur. He didn’t have time for this. They needed to gank these sons of bitches and get the whatzit to Bobby before the clock ran out. He fumbled for the flask of holy water in his pocket, but his fingers felt like sausages. His vision got dark and he knew he was losing. Losing meant he could stop fighting. Stop everything. It was tempting.

Sam exorcised the demon he was fighting and turned to his brother, seeing the knife on the floor. In one smooth motion he grabbed it and stabbed the remaining demon in the back. Dean could see the annoyance on his brother’s face, and almost hear him think, ‘Do I have to do everything?’ And below that, a deeper question, ‘What is wrong with you?’ It was one Dean had been asking himself.

Sam retrieved the artifact for Bobby—Dean couldn’t even remember what it was—and headed back to the Impala. Wordlessly, his brother slipped into the driver’s seat and Dean handed over the keys without argument. As they drove, Foghat’s ‘Slow Ride’ blared from the stereo. ‘Take it easy,’ the song said.

“Are you okay?” Sam was using his big-boy voice. In moments like this Dean could hear the lawyer his brother could have been.

“Stop asking me that. And don’t miss the turn for the Interstate.” Sam shot him a glare and hit the signal.

Dean crossed his arms and turned toward the window as if trying to sleep. He was sick of being asked if he was okay, and he was sick of knowing that the answer was always ‘No.’

“I’d love to stop asking. But tonight, well….” Sam shrugged. He didn’t need to say it. Dean knew he’d been useless out there.

“Give it a rest, Sammy. I had a bad night.” The window mirrored Dean’s face back to him with each light they drove through. Even his reflection looked disappointed in him.

“If you say so.” Sam pulled onto the Interstate. “But this isn’t the first bad night you’ve had lately.”

Dean knew it. Just last week he’d flung what should have been holy water into a demon’s face only to splash the son of a bitch with whisky. He wasn’t even sure how it had happened. Maybe he’d forgotten to stock up before the job. Maybe he’d thought he needed the booze more than the weapon. And on every one of his screw-ups, Sam was there, picking up the slack. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work. A big brother was supposed to protect you, not be a weight you had to carry. Chalk up another failure for Dean Winchester.

He shifted so he could see Sam, jaw clenching and hands tight on the steering wheel. He would do better next time. He had to. The worry lines in Sam’s forehead were getting deep.

Dean tried to lighten the mood. “Is every demon we meet friggin’ gay?”

“No,” Sam said, the tension still in his voice. “I don’t know. Is that even applicable to demons?”

“Well that last one called me pretty.” Dean wiped a hand down his face, still feeling the lick on his skin.

Sam smirked, his dimples flashing out. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste.”

* * *

Dean Winchester was in pain. Castiel could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, his brow tightened and his lips pulled down at the sides. Sometimes Dean looked at him as if he were about to ask a question but didn’t want to speak until he had read the answer in the angel’s face. But each time Dean’s features would harden and he would look away. Castiel wished he knew the answer so he could give it. The hunter’s pain was getting worse. And like any wounded animal, Dean had begun to hide, calling upon him with less frequency, and rejecting his help when it was offered.

“What the hell’s wrong with you, man?” Dean had asked. “Can’t you take a damn break and like it?” Castiel assumed the questions had been rhetorical.

Having a forced break was worrisome, but not inopportune, as Castiel was having problems of his own. He suspected his vessel was deteriorating. Sometimes, in the Impala or the hotel, his stomach and chest felt constricted. He had assumed the feeling was the result of the large order of spiral-cut fried potato Dean had insisted he eat, and had taken an over-the-counter medication for acid reflux to no avail.

Once, during one of his silent communication sessions with Dean, his blood had begun rushing through his veins, and his breathing became shallow and fast. Something important seemed about to happen, and he was certain that Dean was finally going to ask his question. And then Dean had become ill, sequestering himself in the bathroom despite protesting that he was “just fine.” Castiel had taken the opportunity to visit a walk-in clinic where a harried doctor who was cheating on his wife and his taxes had attached sensors to his chest and assured him he wasn’t having a cardiac episode. Since then he’d had bouts of vasocongestion in his reproductive organs, and this evening there was a discomfort in his testes. He hoped that Dean would be able to explain the phenomena. He’d been living as a human male his entire life.

Castiel waited in the cheapest motel in Kansas City, while Sam Winchester slept sprawled on the next bed over. It was 3:00 a.m. when Dean returned, intoxicated, and smelling of perfume and bodily secretions. Castiel turned his nose away.

“Hello Dean.”

“Damn it, Cas. You scared the crap outta me.” His voice was a slurred whisper. He flipped a switch to turn on a bedside lamp and squinted against the brightness. “Why are you sitting in the dark? That’s just creepy, man.”

Dean made such arbitrary judgments. He’d had no problem sitting in the dark at the Motor Inn in Fort Scott, Kansas, when he’d insisted the two of them watch The Empire Strikes Back. That had been the third time Castiel had noticed the problem with his breathing and heart rate, and the first incident of vasocongestion. Dean had fled the room that time, too. The timing was unfortunate. Castiel’s vessel issues and Dean’s odd behavior had distracted him from the film’s intriguing theology.

With the lamp on, the bruise on Dean’s neck was clearly a handprint. The injury bothered him more than the hunter’s battle scars usually did. His eyes followed it as Dean pulled off his jacket and dumped it onto a chair, the demon’s handprint like another person in the room.

“You were gone a long time,” Castiel said

“Got lucky.” Dean grinned, but Castiel felt none of the joy that usually accompanied seeing this expression. “Remember the redhead from that all-night diner?” Dean’s hands pantomimed large mammary glands.

Castiel nodded. “Her name was Nadine.” That clenching in his stomach again. Unpleasant. Outside he could hear a dog bark, and a couple arguing.

“Was it?” Dean winced. “I think I called her Nancy. More'n a few times.”

“Will you be seeing this Nadine again?” Castiel’s heart was quickening, like he was about to go into battle. He wondered if he should seek a second opinion on his condition, perhaps from a doctor with a stronger personal commitment to honesty.

Dean shook his head. “Nah. We said our goodbyes and I Freebirded out of there. Besides, Sam and I are headed to Omaha tomorrow for that case with the guy and the… uh, skin thing.” He removed his boots, steadying himself with a hand on the wall. Castiel watched his clumsy movements, estimating how much alcohol it would have taken to make Dean that intoxicated. Whatever Dean hoped this sizeable alcohol intake would accomplish, it wasn’t healing his emotional injuries. Dean’s soul was usually so bright and powerful and Castiel hated to see it cringe and curl in on itself like this.

“Your sexual conquests have been frequent lately.” Castiel gritted his teeth, sifting through the confusing mix of emotions flooding him. Anger? Suspicion? Fear? Emotions originated in the human limbic system. Maybe his vessel was having a brain issue. He should see a neurologist.

The hunter’s eyes narrowed. “You callin’ me a slut, Cas?”

“I…” Castiel glanced at the pilling bedspread he was sitting on and then back again. Somehow they were having an argument again.

Dean approached him, his gait unsteady. “Don’t sugarcoat it. Tell me how you really feel.” In the light from the bedside lamp Castiel could see the tiny freckles on Dean’s nose and cheekbones. And that handprint, clearer than ever. And now, up close, locking eyes, Castiel could sense his pain, raw and hot.

“You’re hurting.”

Dean waved an unsteady hand. “Don’t try to change the subject. I’m fine.”

“You are most certainly not fine.” Castiel rose from the bed and reached toward Dean. “I could identify the source of the problem if you’d like.”

Dean slapped his hand away, hard, and bared his teeth in a mammalian sign of aggression. “Keep your mind-raping mitts to yourself.”

Castiel dropped his arm, perturbed. “You’re misrepresenting the process. It is purely diagnostic.” He felt a twist in his own chest and wondered if Dean’s pain were contagious.

“Whatever you call it, keep it away. In fact, keep yourself away for a while.” Dean brushed past him and collapsed onto the bed. “Stupid shiny blue….” The remainder of Dean’s words were lost as he buried his face into the thin pillows.

Castiel left, reflecting on the fact that Dean Winchester was a stubborn man.


	2. Chapter 2

Dean cried silently. The walls in Bobby’s house were thin and a solid four hours of sleep was the least he owed Sam and he’d be damned (again) if he was going to wake him up with his emotional bullshit.

Sam had said there was no accounting for taste, but Dean knew his brother was wrong. Tastes had birthplaces and histories. Growing up, he’d had a taste for bad girls, and that made sense. Bad girls were wild, experimental, and willing to hook up with a guy who was only in town for a few days. And on the road there were waitresses and strippers and there was even _Busty Asian Beauties_ to help a man pass the time. But it had always been women. He hadn’t had to think about it. It just was.

And now he was watching Dr. Sexy every week and trying to kiss his best friend. Dean blamed Hell. Drinking beer against the Impala he’d confessed to Sam how long he’d really been there, and how he’d broken after only 30 years. But he hadn’t gone into detail about the tortures he’d endured or committed. His mouth couldn’t even form the words. It was a whole second lifetime.

As a kid, when he thought of Hell he’d imagined pitchforks and fire. As a teen he’d pictured knives, beatings, or weird Hellraiser shit. God, he’d been naïve. Alistair had taken one look at him and seen his desperate masculinity and his daddy issues and had known exactly what would break him. He remembered the metallic sound of Alistair’s belt releasing, and his soft mocking voice, “and I seem to find the happiness I seek…when we’re out together, dancing cheek to cheek.” He’d learned to hate and fear that song. Dean had a version by Frank Sinatra and he still couldn’t bring himself to listen for more than a few seconds before the flashbacks started. His father had endured 100 years on the rack, but in less than a third of that Dean’s cracked lips had formed the words, ‘Sign me up.’ No wonder Alistair called him ‘Daddy’s little girl.’

Tastes born in Hell didn’t stay there. They were leaking into his life, contaminating everything they touched. He shoved the feelings down, but they bobbed up again when he least expected—planning a job, having a beer on the porch, leaning over Cas’ shoulder to read a piece of lore. Sometimes he would realize he’d been staring at the angel, but still couldn’t drag his eyes away. People had started to joke about it.

Fine. Let them yuk it up. If they had any idea what Dean was actually keeping a lid on then they’d know what a monster he’d become. Sometimes he wondered if it was just a matter of time before he lost control and tried to do something bad to Cas. If that was true, then he wasn’t any different from a werewolf or a shifter. And that thought didn’t exactly make for a happy hunting life. He and Sam had it tough with other hunters already—some jealous and itching to knock them down a peg, others suspicious of their loyalties. If the details about Dean’s Hell-acquired tastes got out it could mean the difference between life and death. Not just for him, but for Sam. He needed to take steps.

For weeks now he’d refused to involve Cas in their work. It was too much—the heady rush when he arrived, the conversations with their eyes. Suddenly he’d be fantasizing and terrified that Cas would read his mind. The last two times he’d bolted, trying to hide what felt like the Chrysler building in his pants. And then there’d been that night in Kansas City when Cas had reached out his hand and come close to knowing more than was good for him. For either of them. Better to keep his distance until he got this problem sorted. And he needed to sort it soon because not having Cas around was grinding on his nerves. He missed the guy. That was normal, right? A guy was supposed to miss his best friend.

Even now, with as much booze in him as he could hold, Dean couldn’t stop dwelling on the tilt of Cas’ head, the stubble on his jaw. Even the rumpled coat, like a sexy Columbo. He tried reminding himself that he wasn’t attracted to men. And when that did nothing to cool the heat in his shorts he reminded himself that Cas wasn’t a man. Damn it, the guy wasn’t even human. Just looking at him without his Jimmy Novak getup would burn the eyes out of you. Being attracted to him made no sense. It was like falling for the sunrise, or the Statue of Liberty, or the world’s biggest ball of twine.

Tomorrow he would shove it all down inside and smile and fake his way through the day. But now, alone in the dark, he was too tired and too drunk. Dean imagined Cas, his lids heavy, his mouth open, wet, and gasping, his back arched, imagined pushing him to the edge between pleasure and pain and holding him there, watching him break apart. He shook his head and quickly pictured changing the oil in the Impala. Anything but gaping mouths and clutching hands and aw, fuck it. He closed his eyes and slipped a hand under the covers. Six minutes of mental horror porn, straight, with a guilt chaser. It was becoming a habit. He lost himself to the hated thoughts until he choked off a gasp with gritted teeth.

Dean used a dirty t-shirt to wipe the damning evidence from his hand. Sometimes, after working a job, he’d caught Cas looking at him with what he was pretty sure was regret. Dean couldn’t blame him. He’d regret having dragged his sorry ass out of Hell too. He was supposed to be The Righteous Man, but there was nothing righteous about him. Nothing at all.

* * *

 Castiel stepped away from a computer terminal in a library in Rockford, Connecticut and walked to the window. It was raining heavily in the parking lot outside. Around him people were reading, checking their phones, or tapping at their laptops, oblivious to his emotional upheaval. After cataloguing and researching his symptoms he had identified the issue with his vessel, and it wasn’t good news. He looked out at the rain and rolled his eyes, an expression he had learned from Dean and his brother.

Sexual attraction. How embarrassing. Genesis 6:4 had spoken of this. Acting on his attraction would not result in the birth of nephilim, but his brothers and sisters would definitely frown upon it. Most of his siblings were suspicious of his interest in humanity and found his bond with Dean Winchester odd if not entirely distasteful. Uriel had once compared Dean to a chimpanzee flinging its feces. If his siblings discovered his interest in Dean had become carnal he’d never hear the end of it. Provided any of them still spoke to him, of course.

With this new information, so many things began to make sense. The pain of Dean’s rebuke had been gutting him, and now he knew why. And in Kansas City, when Dean had spoken about the waitress, Nadine, that horrible feeling in his stomach had been jealousy, and it had impaired his ability to help the hunter, who even now persisted in his suffering. No wonder Dean was so petulant lately. Castiel had failed him.

Perhaps there was a lesson here. He had wanted to understand humanity and he was getting his wish. The intensity of sexual feelings, and the way they insinuated themselves into his interactions, made it difficult to concentrate. When Dean had talked about something being a ‘turn on’ he’d made the experience sound pleasant. Castiel was more than a little disappointed by the anxious need gnawing at his insides. If this was human arousal he’d pass. He wasn’t used to this type of desire, or its physical manifestations. He was impressed by how well Sam and Dean managed to live and work with this affliction. They had even come to embrace it. There must be an element of masochism in that.

“Dean.” The sound of his name on his lips pushed a cocktail of hormones through his bloodstream, like a drug to which he was already addicted. He curled his hands into tight fists and his nails cut tiny moons into his palms that healed even as they appeared.

The fluorescent light hitting the window bounced an image of his vessel back at him. Castiel tilted his head in thought. This arousal must be Jimmy Novack’s doing.

Jimmy had been sexually active in his marriage to Amelia, but Castiel knew that did not preclude an interest in men. More than most of his brethren, he understood the range of human sexual attraction. He had read the Song of Songs, the Kama Sutra, and several of the True Blood novels. And despite his human vessel’s chaste history, it was becoming apparent that Jimmy was attracted to Dean Winchester. Humans had been built for desire such as this. It was in Jimmy’s nature to respond sexually.

He put a hand against the cool glass, seeing his own calculating gaze staring back at him. If he understood the origin of Jimmy’s attraction perhaps he could nip it in the bud. He considered rousing Jimmy’s soul to consciousness and interrogating him regarding Dean. But the flaw in that plan was that humans lied. Men especially, seemed reluctant to acknowledge their feelings for other men. And if he woke Jimmy and forced him to face these feelings, might they not become even more intrusive? Castiel nodded to himself. Better to let Jimmy lie dormant and investigate this on his own. Well, perhaps not entirely on his own. Sam Winchester was intelligent and observant. He would ask Sam.

* * *

 “May I ask a question?”

Pacing the floor in Bobby Singer’s kitchen, with his focus on a book, the tallest Winchester gasped to see Castiel standing in front of the fridge. He had shadows under his eyes and Sam wondered if angels had an equivalent of insomnia. He hadn’t slept too well himself, worrying about Dean. His brother was off his game. Way off.

“Sure,” Sam said. He closed the book and set it down, giving the angel his full attention. “What’s up?”

“You and Dean met my vessel, Jimmy, while I was…away.” Castiel settled into a kitchen chair and folded his hands on the table, as if he were about to say grace.

“Uh yeah. We did.” Sam didn’t love thinking about that time in his life, when he’d been drinking demon blood on a regular basis. And Ruby. Damn, the stuff they’d done together made him cringe and smile at the same time. It was better not to think about it. Focus on the now.

“What was your impression of him?”

Sam moved to the counter and poured himself a coffee, his back to the angel. “That’s hard to say. We didn’t really get to know the guy.” If he was honest, neither he nor Dean had been very fond of Jimmy Novak. He was a civilian, and a liability. But Sam suspected that saying so might hurt Castiel’s feelings. Or Jimmy’s feelings. Somebody’s.

“Did Jimmy like Dean? Did they bond?”

“Not really.” Sam looked down at his coffee. “He just wanted to go home to his family.” And hadn’t that gone well? Jimmy’s wife had been possessed by a demon, tried to kill his daughter, and ended up shooting him. Not the Winchester brothers’ finest hour.

“So he and Dean didn’t spend time together? Alone, maybe?”

Sam turned and tucked his hair behind an ear while the angel stared up at him.

“What are you getting at?” Sam knew a vessel had to consent to be possessed by an angel. Was Jimmy having regrets again? If Castiel was hoping Dean could intervene, then his timing couldn’t be worse. Reliability wasn’t his brother’s strong suit at the moment.

“It’s not important.” Castiel’s eyes swept across the table, preoccupied. “May I ask a question of a personal nature?”

“Sure.” Sam slid into the chair opposite and leaned forward. “What do you want to know?’ With Castiel it could be anything from how to treat frostbite to the human longing for transcendence. Sam liked that about him.

The angel looked pointedly at the salt and pepper. “You experience sexual attraction to others of your species.”

Sam spluttered and coughed as coffee slid into his windpipe. “Uh, yeah.” He pounded a fist on his chest and cleared his throat. “To women. Uh, human women.”

“And Ruby.” Castiel’s face was neutral. He had no idea this was a sore spot. He was only trying to be comprehensive. Sam let it go.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “And Ruby.” In his own mind he’d thought of Ruby as a woman, even if she wasn’t human. Heck, sometimes he’d thought of her as practically human. Human with a footnote, maybe. Clearly, that hadn’t turned out so well.

“Yet you rarely unite sexually with others.” Castiel fixed him in a stare and Sam wondered how Dean could stand to be on the receiving end of such intense scrutiny so often. “How do you do that?”

He squinted at the angel. “So what you’re asking,” he said, unsure whether to laugh or be offended, “is how I manage to be so unlucky with women?”

“In essence, yes.” Castiel gestured with is hands as if he wanted to grasp his question but was unsure what shape it was. “You have so few relationships and rarely even forni—”

“I do just fine,” Sam cut in. He was leaning toward offended but knew that was just his ego talking. Had it been so long since he’d had sex that even Castiel was impressed? Sam sighed. He needed to get out more.

“But how do you control your lust?” Castiel pulled a crumpled handful of papers from his coat. “I printed some information from the internet. About masturbation. If you could recommend a technique….”

“Did Dean put you up to this?” Sam reddened and crossed his arms. This was exactly the kind of thing his brother would think was hilarious, and he’d used his angel to deliver the punchlines. Classy. Dean was going to pay for this one.

Castiel looked at the papers and then back at Sam. “I sense you would prefer not to discuss this with me.”

“Yeah.” Sam nodded, trying not to take his annoyance at Dean out on Castiel. “I would prefer that.”

“It is of no consequence. Thank you, Sam.” And with a sound like someone shaking the dust off a tablecloth, he was gone.

* * *

Castiel was frightened. Extensive research had revealed the benefits of masturbation for controlling Jimmy’s sexual urges and of visual stimuli to achieve effective release. After struggling with the ethics of doing so, he had searched Jimmy’s memories, telling himself the intrusion was necessary in order to craft a fantasy scenario that Jimmy would find compelling. But the majority of his vessel’s memories showed only a mix of gratitude and resentment toward Dean, and a few moments of indignant anger. No arousal. The logical conclusion was as unavoidable as it was disturbing. This attraction did not originate in Jimmy Novak.

Castiel appeared in front of the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C., and began walking north, past the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Library. The late afternoon sun was warm on his skin, and as he walked he reviewed his own interactions with Dean, testing a new hypothesis. A breeze ruffled his hair and a woman jostled him with her purse as she hurried past. He stilled, focusing his energy on searching his feelings, as Darth Vader had told Luke Skywalker to do in The Empire Strikes Back.

He felt love. This was to be expected. Angels were created to love. The Ancient Greeks had four words for love: _philia_ , love of friends; _storge_ , familial love; _eros_ , romantic love; and _agape_ , which was unconditional love, such as that for God. Working through the list, Castiel easily acknowledged that he loved Dean as a friend. They had fought side by side. Dean had even described him as his best friend. When he searched his feelings toward Dean they were definitely friendly. He also felt familial love. Having an earthly vessel was often difficult, and Dean had been a touchstone amidst the chaos. Bobby had said that family didn’t end with blood, and Dean had brought him into a circle that included Sam and Bobby. Given his estrangement from Heaven, Castiel valued being part of Dean’s family more than the hunter could realize.

Perhaps there was an erotic element in his relationship with Dean. Their connection was intimate. He had embraced Dean’s tattered soul in Hell and torn it free, clutching it to him as he battled his way out. He had carefully restored the man’s body, placing each muscle and bone and sinew in its place, and each cluster of melatinized cells across his skin. Perhaps he didn’t feel romantic love in the way that humans did, but given what he had sacrificed for Dean, he understood Genesis 2:24 a little better. He had left his heavenly family and cleaved to Dean. And now that he thought about it, he held no objections to becoming one flesh, although his familiarity with the specifics of that were theoretical, like the blueprints of a car he had never driven. But he already enjoyed pleasing Dean in their work together, and it stood to reason that he might enjoy pleasing him in other ways as well.

And when he searched his grace he could tell that these feelings—his feelings, it was clear to him now—had persistence. His feelings for Dean would easily outlast the hunter’s own brief lifespan, and Castiel found that thought bittersweet.

And then the epiphany came to him, like protons smashing together. He spat out an Enochian word that wasn’t used in polite conversation. Standing motionless on the bustling sidewalk, Castiel felt a stab of self-pity. He was in love with Dean Winchester, in every sense of the word. He thought of all he had learned about Dean and felt a weight of sadness settle into his chest. It was unlikely that this feeling would be mutual.

* * *

“Jerk!” Sam greeted Dean with a hard right to the bicep. He’d been waiting in the kitchen, thinking over his conversation with Castiel, and when he heard the Impala pull into the yard he’d even loosened up with a few practice swings. His connection was solid.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean set a bottle of whiskey and the large bag of takeout on the kitchen table and rubbed his arm, wincing. “What the hell, Sam?”

“That’s for what you did to Cas.”

“What did I do to Cas?” Dean actually looked scared and for a moment Sam wondered if he’d gotten his wires crossed and his brother hadn’t planned today’s humiliation.

“Don’t play stupid with me.” Sam pushed his jaw forward, but wondered if his uncertainty showed in his eyes.

“Seriously.” Dean grabbed a bag of peas from the freezer and slapped it against his arm. “I have no clue what you’re talkin’ about.” He nodded toward the takeout bag. “Burger and fries are mine. Got you a chicken salad thing. And you’re welcome.” Dean sat, nursing his arm as Sam unpacked the takeout. One-handed, Dean deftly pulled the burger from its wrappings and transferred it to his mouth.

Sam ignored the food and pushed himself to his full height so he could stare down at Dean, his long arms crossed in judgment. “So you didn’t put him up to asking those questions?”

“Wuff guesshuns?” Dean asked.

Sam frowned and watched his brother chew with his mouth open. Was Dean this good at feigning ignorance? His confusion looked genuine. Scary genuine.

“Sexual questions, Dean. About dating, and lust, and, and,” Sam lowered his voice, “masturbation.” He rolled his eyes. “And how I’m so bad at hooking up with women.”

Dean made his ‘This is all very serious’ face and Sam could tell he was trying not to laugh. His brother swallowed. “Did he now?”

“You know what? Screw you. You wanna pretend you didn’t have a hand in it? Fine. I expect as much from you. But that was a shitty thing to do to Cas!” Sam grabbed his salad and stormed off to his bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel sat in a motel room in Michigan whose name, Super 8, he assumed must hold numerological significance. The number 8 represented power and control. He didn’t feel either of those things at the moment. He locked the door and then jammed a chair under the handle. He wasn’t enthusiastic about what he was about to do and he certainly didn’t want to be interrupted by housekeeping staff.

His glance took in the glossy magazines fanned across the bedspread. His first instinct had been to search for appropriate material on the internet, but his attempts to do so had caused him to be banned from two public libraries in the Northeast. A Gas-n-Sip in Milwaukee had carried an impressive array of publications, although the clerk had been unhelpful when asked to recommend masturbation material featuring attractive men. He picked up a copy of Men’s Health and flipped through it, looking for an image that would help focus and eliminate his arousal. Castiel frowned. None of these men looked like Dean. They looked like an anatomy lesson on abdominal muscles. He flipped through the pages, but found himself more interested in an article about lowering his cholesterol than he did in the photos. At least the article reminded him of Dean, given all the fried food he ate.

This was not promising. He turned to the copy of Busty Asian Beauties he had purchased because he knew Dean liked it. Castiel found himself drawn to breasts, although he wasn’t sure why. Possibly this was some residue of Jimmy’s attractions. Perhaps human beings were naturally drawn to body parts that distinguished them from reptiles and birds, such as breasts, body hair, and the auditory ossicles of the middle ear. This magazine featured a woman whose Japanese name meant ‘elegant beauty.’ Her elegance wasn’t immediately apparent, as she was wearing a very short plastic dress and biting a riding crop. Castiel attempted to engage with the image using fantasy, but the only one that came to mind involved helping her to obtain warmer, more comfortable garments. He threw the magazine onto the bed. How could he eliminate his lustful thoughts toward Dean if he couldn’t even reach the first stage of sexual arousal?

Perhaps he needed more information. Sam had been too reticent to speak about his lust management techniques. As much as he hated to, he might have to broach the subject with Dean. He stared resentfully at the magazines. He hadn’t been near Dean since realizing the nature of his feelings toward him. He just hoped his ‘game face’ was up to the challenge. There was no reason to burden Dean with this. Dean was not interested in Men’s Health magazines.

* * *

Dean was behind the wheel of the Impala, which as far as he was concerned was as it should be, even if they were only going to the store and back. The cassette in the stereo was playing Foreigner’s Cold As Ice. Sam knew this tape well, having been forced to listen to it _ad nauseam_ on the way to Phoenix once. Refusing to relive that fiasco, he opened the glove compartment and sorted through the cassettes, desperate for something he hadn’t been hearing since he was four.

“You know, they still make music,” Sam said. “You might even like some of it.”

“I’ve heard current music. It all sucks.” Dean turned onto North Minnesota Avenue, the car purring like a lion. Dean would never speak of the time in El Paso when he and Cas had sung along to Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” while going to pick Sam up from the library.

Sam popped a cassette into the player as Dean waited for a bronze Toyota to get out of his way so he could switch lanes. The tape started up, a jazzy number with trumpet, saxophone, and lots of brush on the cymbals, like the opening of a 1960s sitcom. Then Frank Sinatra’s voice poured from the speaker. “Heaven, I’m in Heaven.”

Dean swerved and almost sideswiped a rusty Audi. He adjusted and made a desperate grab for the stereo, jabbing the buttons until the tape popped out. Fumbling, he stuffed the cassette into his jacket pocket. “Pick somethin’ else.”

Sam settled for Zeppelin.

“Now you’re talkin’.” Dean’s smile looked slightly forced. “It was good enough for Dad, it’s good enough for me.”

Sam grumbled all the way to the grocery store and all the way inside, and if he noticed that Dean was quieter than usual for the rest of the day, he didn’t mention it.

* * *

Dean chewed the last half of a stale sandwich and listened at Sam’s door to the sound of his brother’s even, deep breathing. Good. The big lunk was finally asleep. He slipped into the room, returning with the laptop. The booze wasn’t helping. The women weren’t helping. The pressure was building and Dean had to bleed it off if he was going to stay functional. Or get back to functional. He owed it to Sam. He owed it to Cas, too. Poor bastard was getting the fuzzy end of the friendship lollipop and didn’t even know why.

Dean did his research, remembering to erase the browser history. The last thing he needed was Sam going all Gay-Straight Alliance on him. The bar he selected was downtown, by the Big Sioux River, and at 1:00am it was a good hunting ground. He ordered a double scotch, downed it, and ordered a second. Clutching his drink like a weapon, he stood with his back to the wall, surveying the crowd.

He spotted his quarry, sitting alone, drinking beer. He was almost perfect. White dress shirt, tie hanging askew, hair short and dark against his skin. Sure, the hair was too artfully styled and the chin wasn’t quite right, but beggars can’t be choosers. Dean approached, hiding his nerves behind a crooked smile.

“Hey.” He noted the man’s drink was almost gone. “Buy you another?”

“Sure. Thanks.” The smile was returned. Good start.

Dean signaled the waiter for another beer and joined the stranger at his table.

“You live around here?” The man asked, his legs shifting to align with Dean’s.

“Just passing through.” Dean held the man’s gaze one second, two, three. The stranger’s eyes weren’t exactly piercing, but they were blue. It was enough.

Sixteen minutes later they were in a motel off the highway.

The walls were tan and slightly textured, and Dean ran his fingers against the pattern as he pressed the stranger to the wall with the length of his body. The man moved in for a kiss and Dean redirected him to his neck, despite his fading bruise. This wasn’t the friggin’ prom. He had a job to do and scratching this itch was gonna help him do it. Still, he understood the impulse. When the light hit him just right, the stranger was almost Cas. The effect made his heart pound.

Panting slightly, the stranger pulled Dean’s t-shirt up and off, and clamped his mouth on a nipple. Losing himself to the feeling, Dean hissed a name, which the stranger mistook for “Yes.” Dean closed his eyes, thinking of blue eyes and black shadowy wings as the man unbuttoned Dean’s jeans and tugged the zipper open. Moments later his pants were at his knees and he stepped back and pushed them off.

Showtime.

The man pulled at his tie.

“No.” Dean stilled the stranger’s wrist. “Keep the shirt and tie. Lose the pants.”

Almost-Cas smiled. “Whatever turns you on.”

“You’re doing fine.” Dean pulled off his boxer briefs. As the stranger’s hands explored his body Dean closed his eyes and gave himself over to memory. Only instead of Alistair, he pictured Castiel using him, breaking him. In that space between fantasy and reality, he wasn’t sure if the reedy “Please” that escaped his lips was him begging for mercy or for more. In Hell it had been both too.

He braced himself against the dresser, feeling lips against the back of his neck, hands gripping his hips, and the warmth of the stranger against him, hard and prodding.

“Wrap up.” He grabbed a condom and lube pack from the dresser and passed them back. Soon this almost-Cas would punish him the way he deserved, and maybe then the guilt and lust would ease enough that he could work or get a decent night’s sleep.

There was a rustle by the door, and he heard the stranger behind him swear and step away from him. Dean opened his eyes and raised his head. There, illuminated by a table lamp shaped like a seahorse, stood Cas, looking concerned.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean bolted upright and slammed a fist onto the dresser, denting the chipboard. This was probably his own damn fault. He’d said Cas’ name, maybe more than once. The phrase ‘butt-dial’ came to mind but wasn’t one he wanted to use, given the circumstances.

Dean closed his eyes, wishing he could be somewhere, anywhere, else when he opened them. He’d been sloppy. He should have warded the room against angels. Of course scribbling symbols on the walls might have scared off his ‘date.’ His gaze darted to the half-naked man cowering behind him. In the same room as Cas, the stranger looked like a cheap knock-off.

“Oh.” Cas frowned and looked at the carpet. “I didn’t realize you...” He glanced at the half naked man and then looked again, taking in his tousled hair, pale skin, and stubbled jaw. “Oh.”

“This your boyfriend?” The stranger asked Dean, his voice tense as Cas stared at him with his laser eyes.

“Somethin’ like that,” Dean grumbled as he grabbed his boxer briefs and pulled them on as fast as he could move.

The stranger took a few anxious steps toward the door and Cas pinned him to the wall with a hand, glowering at him as if he were a disappointing science experiment.

“Dean,” The angel turned his fierce attention to him as the hunter jumped into his jeans, “do you love this man?”

Dean raised his palms. “Hey, I don’t even know the guy.”

Cas withdrew his hand, looking down at where the stranger’s pants weren’t. “But you were going to have sex with him.”

Silence. The longer it stretched out the more evident the answer seemed.

“I should go.” The stranger grabbed his pants from the floor and held them in front of his crotch, like a shield.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded, his eyes on the dingy carpet where the condom and tiny pack of lube had fallen. The man bolted for the door, scrambling for his underwear and shoes as he went. Dean pulled on his shirt, sat on the edge of the bed, and crammed his feet into his boots. Fully dressed now, he smiled to mask his panic.

“Look, Cas, I think you might have gotten the wrong impression here.”

The angel looked at him with an expression that, on Sam’s face, would have meant, ‘Bitch, please!’ Dean hoped his next line, whatever it was, could be more convincing.

Cas surveyed the room as if tracing Dean’s movements in it. “I can smell him on you. And then there’s this.” He picked up the condom, still in its wrapper, and loomed over him, the package raised. His impression of the situation was entirely accurate.

Dean exhaled, something between a laugh and a sigh. “I’m self destructive, man, not stupid.”

“I think I understand.” Cas looked at Dean as if seeing him for the first time. And then surged forward, mouth first. Dean’s eyes went wide. This was no tentative first time kiss. This was a kiss learned from a porno, all frantic tongue, and desperate lips. It was nothing like kissing the world’s biggest ball of twine.

Dean’s dick, straining for friction, didn’t care that his anonymous hookup had tapped out in favor of someone who could break him in half, physically and emotionally. His hips bucked forward and he gasped into Cas’ mouth. This was good. Too good. The memories were flooding him, every sick thing he’d done to those souls in Hell, and the urge to repeat them here, with Cas. Why did this angel stir up his Hell memories in a way no one night stand ever did? Was this God’s way of saying ‘stand down, soldier?’ Whatever it was, the warning lights were going off in Dean’s brain.

“Cas, stop.” Dean pushed him back and the angel allowed himself to be pushed. “Just stop, okay?”

“Am I not doing it right?” Cas’ pale face was disheveled and puzzled. Gorgeous.

“Oh, you’re doing it right.” Dean covered his eyes with his palms and growled in frustration. “I, I gotta go before I do something we’re both gonna regret.” He tapped a sympathetic hand on Cas’ shoulder. “I’ll uh, I’ll call you, okay?” He wrenched open the door and lurched into the dark parking lot. His heart was still pounding when, safe inside the Impala, he pulled onto the asphalt and sped away.

* * *

Chalmers, a demon wearing a weightlifter in a jean jacket, had been tracking Dean Winchester for five days now. He hated these observe and report jobs. Perkins, with that pinched voice of his, called them O-and-Rs, as if having a stupid nickname made the assignment suck any less. And they did suck. Instead of raising Hell across the continental United States Chalmers was tailing Dean Winchester and taking notes. He’d heard the stories, but nothing he’d seen so far lived up to the legend. Dean Winchester eats at Biggersons. Dean Winchester buys booze. Dean Winchester drives aimlessly around town. Dean Winchester goes to a bar. Blah blah blah. Exorcise me now.

Chalmers snarled. If he didn’t kill someone soon he was going to lose his mind. Then, outside a cheap motel by the highway a man had come running from the room he’d entered with Winchester only minutes before. Naked from the waist down, and struggling into his clothes, the guy looked terrified. What in Hell’s holy name had Winchester done to the guy? It piqued the imagination.

Chalmers stepped from his stolen Cadillac and approached.

“Looks like you’ve had a rough night. Need a lift?”

As the stranger nodded gratefully Chalmers hand moved into his jacket pocket and curled around his straight razor. Maybe this evening wouldn’t be such a waste.

* * *

Castiel sat on the bed in Dean’s abandoned motel room, thinking. He’d hoped to ask Dean for advice about lust elimination, but things had taken an unexpected turn. He had evidently been wrong about Dean’s attraction patterns. He let this new evidence percolate, assessing what it changed. He attempted to do this dispassionately, but found himself unable to take a purely logical perspective.

The pleasure of Dean’s mouth had filled his senses until Dean was all he could see, smell, feel, hear, or taste. He remembered how tightly Dean had gripped his hair. He had wanted the kiss. In fact, based on Dean’s physiological response, he had wanted more than that, right up until he had fled the room. This incident was a disquieting mix of satisfying and torturous. It certainly cast the evenings when Dean had locked himself into the bathroom in a new light.

Castiel turned the condom over in his hand. The Ancient Egyptians had used something like this, made of sheep intestine. He pulled it from the wrapper and stretched it until it snapped. The mechanics were easy to grasp. He squeezed the tiny pack of lube, marveling at its resemblance to the ketchup packets Dean brought from Biggersons, and then recoiled when the package split, discharging thick clear liquid onto his fingers.

He walked to the bathroom, dropped the condom and lube pack into the garbage, and washed his hands. Looking at the reflection of his vessel in the mirror, he thought about the stranger Dean had brought to the motel. A male stranger. With whom Dean had been going to have sex. Castiel frowned as hope and despair battled for supremacy inside him. Dean Winchester was extremely confusing.

* * *

Dean knew he was dreaming, but that didn’t make the situation any less terrifying. He was in the motel by the highway with the stranger who wasn’t Cas. Only this time Dean had him pressed against the dresser, gripping his hair, running his nails down his pale back, across his ass. He moved forward, then hesitated. Everything felt wrong.

“What’s the matter?” The stranger turned to look at him. “You weren’t shy when we did this before.”

“Before?” Dean struggled to remember.

“In Hell.” His eyes flickered and went black. Dean recoiled and fell onto the bed. The demon smiled, his resemblance to the angel now entirely superficial. “Aw. Poor Dean,” it said, its voice tinged with false pity. “Can't get it up for me unless I'm screaming and pleading?”

“Who are you?”

“Don’t remember our special time together? I’d be hurt, but ten years of depravity really racks up the numbers, doesn’t it? Let me jog your memory.” The demon approached, his mouth broken in a leer. Dean groped for his knife, for a weapon of any kind, but found none. Fuck. He was going to die bad, and he deserved every minute of it.

Then the furniture began to shake, the lights flickered, and Castiel was there, bright, and strong, and angry. He grabbed the demon and burned him from the inside out, the skull visible against the embers. Dean’s breath hitched and he gripped fistfuls of the comforter. He shouldn’t find this so damn hot.

Suddenly, with the strange logic of a dream, Cas was beneath him, looking up at him with eyes that saw everything but trusted him anyway. He touched Dean’s face. “Wouldn’t you prefer to do this with someone you love?”

Dean hadn’t used that particular word in his own head yet, but hearing the question, he wished he could say ‘yes.’ But then he remembered the joyful oblivion he’d felt in Hell when he’d pinned a soul beneath him like this and made them feel his rage and pain and fear. He couldn’t do that to Cas.

“Not for a second.” He pulled away. Even in his dreams, Dean Winchester fought to protect the people he cared about.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam ran a hand through his wet hair and frowned. It had taken only moments for his worries to kick into high gear this morning. Dean was pickling himself in booze. Castiel was being even weirder than usual. Sometimes he wondered if he was the only one who wasn’t losing his mind. And today he wondered if he should be worried about that, too, given all the crap he’d been through. When Bobby came into the kitchen, bleary eyed with sleep, Sam handed him a coffee.

“We need to talk.”

Bobby pursed his lips. “Ya mind if I eat first?”

“You cook. I’ll talk.”

Bobby slurped his coffee. “Where’s Mr. Sunshine this morning?”

“Dean’s out.” His brother had come in late and left early, not for the first time.

“Okay.” Bobby put a greasy skillet on the burner and cranked the heat to high. “What’s got your panties in a bunch?”

Sam took a breath and rushed to get the words out before he lost his nerve. “Dean’s drinking his breakfast, lunch, and dinner. That time in Brandon he was too wasted to do the job. And there’ve been more’n a few incidents since.”

“Balls” Bobby said, his eyes on the empty pan as the oil heated. “Hunters drink, Sam. That’s why we call it ‘hunter’s helper.’ You know that.”

“Not like this. Not like Dean. It’s going to get one of us killed. Maybe both of us.”

“Hell. If I knew how to stop people drinkin’…” Bobby let the sentence hang, thinking of his childhood and his life since. He opened the fridge and pulled out a carton, swore, and wiggled the offending item at Sam. “Which one of you idjits put this back in the fridge with one Goddamn egg in it?”

“Dean.” Sam swallowed cold coffee and turned his eyes away, trying not to think of his own plate in the sink, still greasy from breakfast. “Probably.”

Bobby broke the egg into the pan where it began to pop and sizzle, looking small and sad. “It’s not like we can check him into rehab,” he said. “He’d be a sitting duck for every demon within a hundred miles.”

As he spoke there was a rustle and Castiel appeared by the sink, holding a carton of eggs. Bobby, unfazed by the arrival, took possession of the carton.

“Are you talking about Dean?” Castiel asked.

Sam nodded, turning to include the angel in the conversation. “We could lock him in the panic room downstairs until he dries out. Couple of weeks maybe?”

Bobby grimaced. “And won’t that be just peachy to live with.” He cracked eggs into the pan and watched them merge and cook as the greasy smell filled the kitchen. He’d seen a long-time drinker dry out once, in Tucson. It was damn near an exorcism.

Sam remembered his own stint in the panic room while he dealt with his demon blood addiction. He knew what he was asking.

Castiel spoke, his voice raw. “I have a proposal.”

Bobby leaned into the fridge and emerged with a rasher of bacon. “Well then pull up a pew, boy, ‘cause we’d love to hear it.”

* * *

In the shower that morning Dean let the hot water soak him through as he traced the imprint of Cas’ hand on his shoulder. He wondered if the angel had watched him before pulling him out of Hell, and if he’d actually seen what kind of a man they’d sent him to retrieve. He put his head under the spray, the water almost too hot to stand. If he’d been Cas he’d have left him there to rot.

But not Cas. No, Cas had pulled him out and rebuilt him from whatever scrap had been left. Restored him, like he’d just rolled off the assembly line. Dean wondered if that process was as emotional for Cas as fixing the Impala was for him. He shut off the shower and grabbed a towel. Being raised from Hell had given him new upholstery, but his engine needed a serious overhaul, and he finally knew how to start.

He’d awoken from his nightmare sweaty and shaken, heart racing, and then sat up for a few hours before dawn, reading his father’s journal. His last-ditch hook-up plan had achieved the complete opposite of what he’d intended. Not only had it not scratched this whole gay-for-Cas itch, but now he’d crossed a line. There was a very awkward conversation with an angel in his future. And what if Cas told Sam or Bobby about the kissing before then? That was a problem he didn’t even want to think about.

He’d turned a page in his dad’s journal, reading about a case that had taken place locally. A guy whose kid had been possessed was having PTSD issues six months after the fact. The kid’s psychiatrists, not having the full picture, had wanted to medicate. John Winchester’s plan had worked better. As Dean read the particulars of what they’d done, an idea formed. It was risky, but when had he ever played it safe? He ran a hand over his father’s army ribbons, pinned to the inside of the journal. John Winchester had always been more practical than sentimental. He would understand.

The address he found led him across town to an alley between a laundromat and a Thai restaurant. In the early morning hours it was deserted. He’d told Sam he was going for a drive to clear his head, and if his idea worked that would be true. He pounded a fist on a blue metal door and an electronic speaker in the wall crackled to life.

“Who is it?”

“Name’s Winchester,” he shouted into the speaker. “You did some work for my father, John, back in the day.” He waited, hand on his knife. He could never be sure if the names he got out of his dad’s journal were going to be pleasant, pissed, or possessed. Or, as was the case here, when they were gonna be a friggin’ witch.

The door buzzed and Dean stepped inside. At first glance, it was a typical fortuneteller’s setup, complete with Ouija board, crystal ball, and lighting low enough to hide the theatrical contraptions. But Dean noted the iron bars on the windows, the salt along the ledges, and the devils trap on the ceiling by the door.

“Winchester?” A tall woman greeted him.

He nodded curtly and smiled, trying not to show his bias against witches, but out of habit he spotted two exits, one of which would involve going through a wall.

She motioned for him to sit and he twisted the chair around backwards in case he had to move fast.

“I’m hoping you can help me with a situation,” he began. “It’s a little complicated.”

“Relax.” The woman smiled, showing teeth that were slightly too white. “You’re not the only one who has memories he’d rather not carry.”

“You know why I’m here?” He raised his chin. The idea that anyone could read him this easily was unnerving. He wondered what else the witch could see. Did she know about Hell? About Cas?

She waved a long fingered hand. “I just get a sketch.” She rose, and went to a cabinet against the wall. “Did you bring the item? The Merit of the Father?” She returned with a metal bowl and a handful of tiny bottles.

“Yeah.” Dean reached into his pocket and extracted his father’s Purple Heart ribbon, gripping it in his fist. He muttered an apology to his dad before setting the pin on the table between them. “You sure this is gonna work?”

“If you let it.” She arranged the items in front of her and then reached out and took the pin.

“It won’t damage it, right?”

“Not physically.” She examined its purple front and white edges. “This was awarded for being wounded in battle, yes?”

Dean nodded. He rarely thought about his father’s stint in the Marines or his service in Vietnam. As far as he was concerned, his dad had spent his whole life fighting a war, just not the kind anyone gave medals for.

“Good. That’ll help.” She put the pin into the bowl and applied drops from the jars. The bowl began to smoke and the room filled with the smell of sulfur.

Dean lunged forward. “You said this wouldn’t hurt it.”

“ _Obliviscere_.” She gripped his head, her other hand hovering over the bowl, and he gasped as if taking breath for the first time. The relief was immediate and he blinked away tears. His memories, which had been turned up to 11, reduced to 3 or 4. The woman released him and he almost tumbled from his chair. He smiled, giddy. It wasn’t full-on amnesia, but he could live with this. More importantly, he could work. Maybe he could even hang out with Cas again.

The woman went to the cupboard and returned with a small wooden box. She poured the contents of the bowl into the box, then closed and locked it. She looked at Dean’s beaming smile, her eyes hard as stone. “Keep it in the box.”

“No problem.” He reached out a hand but she pulled back.

“In. The. Box.”

“Yes Ma’am.” He nodded, unable to wipe the grin from his face. “Payment as agreed?”

“As agreed.” She closed in on him with a long and pointed pair of scissors and Dean gripped her wrist.

“You’re uh, not gonna do any freaky mystical shit with it, are ya?”

She rolled her eyes. “With Dean Winchester’s hair? Please! It’ll all be freaky mystical shit.”

As Dean exited through the metal door Chalmers’ black eyes watched from a car across the street. The hunter had a spring in his step, a new haircut, and a box clutched under his arm like a football. Chalmers licked his lips and pulled out his cell phone. In the trunk the remains of the man who had once resembled Castiel went into rigor.

* * *

When Dean returned, Sam, Bobby, and Cas were on the couch, as serious as Olympic judges. Dean ran a hand over his head, short hairs bristling against his fingertips.

“Take a picture, guys, it’ll last longer.”

Sam gestured at a chair across from them. “Have a seat, Dean.”

Dean sat and took in the three sets of eyes boring into him.

“What’s up?” He touched his hair again. “Too Beiber? He wondered if Cas had told Sam and Bobby about the motel. He looked fearfully at Sam, expecting any minute he’d blurt something like, ‘We heard you tried to make Cas your girlfriend,’ or ‘So, you’re gay now?’ Dean’s eyes did a quick scan of the room for any brochures Sam might have collected, like Accepting Your Bisexual Brother.

Sam had a grim set to his jaw. Bobby looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. Cas was watching him intently. He looked at the angel’s mouth, remembering that kiss, then realized he’d been looking too long when he began to swell against his jeans. He shifted his eyes to the coffee table, where a bowl of gummy worms sat on a book about Ancient Sumaria. Okay, he thought, so maybe this Cas problem wasn’t sorted. Keep your eyes on the candy, Winchester.

Sam glanced at Bobby then back to his brother. “We need to talk about your drinking.”

Dean forgot all about the gummy worms. “Knock it off, guys. You're freakin’ me out.”

Cas spoke, “Dean, your behavior of late,” but Sam nudged him.

“We agreed to use ‘I’ statements.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He turned to Dean, and licked his lips before speaking again. “I find your behavior puzzling at the best of times, but when you drink…”

“I’m an asshole.” Dean completed the statement for him. “I get it.” He bit the inside of his cheeks, trying not to smile or breathe a huge sigh of relief. They were hosting an intervention for him. This was awesome. God, if they only knew the half of it.

The angel rubbed his neck and whispered to Sam. “This is not the reaction I had anticipated.”

Sam cleared his throat. “What we want you to know, Dean, is that we love you and we’re concerned about you. I feel,” he touched his chest, “that when you’re drinking your reflexes are slower and I worry that one of us will get hurt. Or worse.”

“Oh Hell,” Bobby interjected, “it’s ‘hunter’s _helper’_ you idjit. It can’t do the job for ya!”

Dean slapped his knees. “I appreciate the Hallmark moment guys. I really do. Your concern is,” he put a hand to his heart, mocking Sam, “it’s touching. Seriously.” He stood, and the others did the same.

“Dean,” Sam started, but his brother cut him off.

“You’re right, Sammy. You’re all right. I had some stuff I was dealing with, and let’s just say I overindulged. That’s all behind me now.” He raised a hand. “Scouts honor.”

Castiel squinted at him. “I do not believe you are a member of that organization.”

“You should see my merit badges.” Dean winked at him and the corners of Cas’ mouth curled up. Dean’s heart pounded and he turned to look at Sam, Bobby, or even those damn gummy worms. Anywhere but at that amazed smile.

Sam nodded, short and sharp. “Glad we talked.” He turned to Bobby. “Well, that’s a load off my mind. Let’s hear about those jobs you lined up.”

“Abso-freakin-lutely,” Dean agreed, glad to be moving on. “Focus on the work. What’s the gig?”

Bobby sighed. “We got reports of ghosts on flights between Sioux City and Chicago. Need someone to check that out.”

Dean’s smile lost some of its shine. He hated flying. It was right up there on the list with witches.

Bobby glanced at Sam. “And there’s a wendigo in Manistee National Forest.” He opened a map and pointed to a green splotch near lake Michigan. “Place is riddled with abandoned salt mines. It won’t be easy, but I rigged up a flamethrower might do the trick. If’n it don’t burn the balls off ya first.”

Dean could barely believe his luck. An abandoned salt mine was the perfect place to hide the box. No ghost or demon in its right mind would go near it. And it didn’t involve airplanes or witches. He shot an arm into the air. “I call Michigan!”

“Fine,” Sam said, as if he didn’t care. “You and Cas go to Michigan and Bobby and I’ll fly to Chicago. But we’re taking the Impala.”

Dean’s face fell.

“Don’t give me that look,” Sam said. “It’s a fourteen hour drive to Michigan. Go with Cas, angel express.”

“Fine.” Dean pouted. “But don’t leave my baby in some shitty airport parking lot.”

“I won’t.” Sam caught the keys one-handed.

“I’ll go pack.” Dean pointed a finger at Bobby. “Then I wanna check out that flamethrower.”

“Well,” Sam said once his brother was out of earshot, “that was easy.”

Bobby looked concerned. “It ain’t over yet.”


	5. Chapter 5

In the alley between the Laundromat and the Thai restaurant Chalmers pounded a fist on the blue metal door and waited. Just as he was about to bang again the speaker crackled.

“Who is it?” The question was barely audible through the static.

“Dean Winchester,” Chalmers lied. He glanced to his right, at Perkins, who fancied himself in charge when they were in the field. Perkins looked like a rat. Someday Chalmers would break that enormous nose of his.

The lock buzzed and he jerked the door open. Perkins pushed in first, eager to be important. Chalmers hung back. In his experience the first guy through the door discovered all the booby traps.

* * *

While Bobby kept Dean busy outside, Castiel and Sam rifled through his bags, confiscating alcohol. As Sam saw it, sending Dean to Michigan had a number of advantages. It would keep him off the job and relatively protected by isolation, and it freed him and Bobby to work. As bad as he felt foisting the task onto Castiel, he was glad he wasn’t going to have to watch Dean suffer. He’d done enough of that in his lifetime.

“How long do you expect this mission will take?” Castiel asked, pulling Dean’s clothes from a backpack. Sam saw the angel hesitantly raise one of Dean’s sweaters to his face and inhale. He wondered if addiction had a smell.

“Couple of weeks, maybe.” He pulled a fifth of whisky from his brother’s duffle. “Just keep him there ’til you think he’s better.”

“You may rely on me.”

Sam scowled. “Dean’s not gonna be pleasant once he starts detoxing. I don’t envy you.”

“I experienced envy recently,” Castiel said, removing the cap from a bottle of cologne and sniffing it with suspicion. “It was…disagreeable.” He pulled half a dozen pocket-sized bottles of rum from the backpack and put them, together with the cologne, into Sam’s growing pile of contraband.

Sam transferred the booze into a bag, tied it off and began to fill another. “Better hurry. I don’t know how long Bobby can keep him occupied, even with a flamethrower.” He pulled a lumpy object from Dean’s duffle and began to unwrap it. It was a bag within a bag within a bag. And inside was a locked box.

Sam smirked. Nice try, Dean. He’d been picking locks since before he could ride a bike. He applied his pick for a few moments then lifted the lid and stared, perplexed. Inside was one of his father’s service pins. “That shouldn’t be in—”

He touched it.

It was as if his mind had tapped into a torrent of demonic porn featuring Dean in the starring role. And amongst the horror show, images of Castiel, like kinky Polaroids.

Sam collapsed, dropping the pin and scrambling backward. “What the Hell was that?”

Castiel picked up the pin and held it, allowing the images to wash through his mind.

“I believe they’re Dean’s memories of Hell, perfectly preserved. Like tiny movies.” Castiel was impressed. “This is a very good spell.”

Sam wiped sweat from his face and sat gasping for air. “Why is it in his duffle?”

Castiel’s face clouded. “Clearly he intends to bring it with us to Michigan.” He returned the pin to the box, locked it, and began to wrap it up again. “We should put this back where we found it.”

Sam pulled air into his aching lungs and waited for his head to stop throbbing. He didn’t want to think about his brother doing those things. Dean probably didn’t either. It explained a lot, actually.

“Do you think Dean’s drinking might be due to a, um, sexual problem?” Sam stood, wiping his palms on his shirt.

Castiel gave him a look of disbelief he’d learned from Sam himself.

“Can you help him?”

“I hope so.” Castiel returned Dean’s clothes to the duffle, on top of the wrapped box.

Sam gathered the alcohol and paused in the doorway, thinking of the images of Castiel he’d seen. “Listen, if this is none of my business, just say so.”

“Certainly.”

“Your interest in Dean, is it personal?”

Castiel looked at the duffle, his face thoughtful. “Love is always personal.”

* * *

Chalmers waved his hand over the bowl of blood and made a call he dreaded. It had been the same for sixty years. Every boss was a total dick.

“It’s Chalmers. At the fortuneteller’s place.”

The blood bubbled. “Where’s Perkins?”

Chalmers looked at the mess of limbs inside the devil’s trap. “Retired.”

“What case is this again?”

Chalmers hung his head. He had enough on his plate tracking the hunter. Was it too much to ask that they give him proper administrative support?

“Winchester. Dean Winchester.”

The blood bubbled and burst. “Riiight. That Winchester. What’s the story?”

Chalmers flipped disinterestedly through a notebook before tossing it to the floor. “He was definitely here this morning. Think he bought a spell.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. He left with something in a box.” Chalmers picked up another notebook, but it was filled with incomprehensible squiggles. “Fortune teller’s a witch.”

His boss sighed. “Did you question her?”

“Yeah.” Chalmers looked at the woman’s body, parts of it still strapped to the chair. “She wasn’t helpful.” Management. Always wanting results, never appreciating effort.

“At least tell me you know what spell Winchester bought.”

Chalmers opened a cupboard filled with potions, herbs and decorative knick-knacks. Humans were always looking for a quick fix. More hair, bigger dicks, fancier cars, prettier women. It was sadly predictable.

“Hard to say.” He picked up a dagger and used it to clean his nails.

The blood simmered angrily. “Well find out fast or I’ll be wearing your skin to the next office party.”

One thing Chalmers has learned in his sixty years was that when trouble turned its black eyes on him it was best to redirect that aggression. He looked thoughtfully at the dagger and thought about the box he’d seen under Dean Winchester’s arm.

“It might be some kind of a weapon.”

* * *

Dean’s bags, now devoid of alcohol, lay on the floor in Bobby’s living room, next to the homemade flamethrower. Sam looked at Castiel, sitting stiffly on the sofa, examining a bowl of gummi worms. When the angel had said he loved Dean had he meant _love-love_ , or saintly ‘I’d Like To Teach The World To Sing’ kind of love? And if he meant love-love, did Dean know? And if he did, how did he feel about it? And–oh God—did any of this explain Castiel’s questions about sex the other day? Sam needed some answers before he sent his brother into the woods with the guy.

Dean strode in from the hall, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, Cas. Look alive. We’re ‘bout to fricassee a wendigo. Eye of the Tiger, man.”

“Quick word?” Sam grabbed his brother’s arm and pulled him toward the kitchen.

With a wary eye on the kitchen doorway, Bobby joined Castiel on the sofa and leaned in close. “I’ve been doing some research,” he said, his voice low, “I’m thinkin’ cold turkey might not be the right sandwich for this picnic.”

Castiel held a gummi worm up to the light. “The picnic menu is sound.” He gripped both ends of the gummi worm and stretched it, delighted at its elasticity. “Were you aware that worms are hermaphrodites?”

Bobby fixed him in a glare. “Do I look like I care?”

“Not gummy worms, obviously.” Castiel’s face became serious. “I’ve restored Dean’s body on a number of occasions, including the time I raised him from Hell.” He slapped a hand on Bobby’s shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “You can rely on me to see to Dean’s welfare, both physical and mental.”

“If you say so. I just hope you’re prepared for when things go all Lost Weekend.” Bobby’s face glowed with pride. “Our boy’s a wily son of a bitch.”

* * *

In the kitchen, Sam swung his arms, trying to figure out what to say. He wasn’t out of Castiel’s auditory range, but with luck he could learn what he needed before the angel understood what he was asking.

“What now?” Dean asked, hands on his hips. “About to go kill a wendigo. Like to get it done sometime this year.”

Sam took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. “You know you can talk to me, right?”

Dean was impatient. “What about?”

“About anything. Work problems, personal problems.” He lowered his voice. “Sexual problems.”

Dean recoiled as if he’d been smacked. “Sexual problems?”

“For example, if I were attracted to a colleague.” Sam glanced meaningfully toward the living room. “I’d like to think that we could talk about it.”

Dean followed his gaze and his face clouded. “We ain’t talkin’ about Bobby here, are we?”

Sam gave his brother the ‘Are you insane?’ stare. “Hell no. I was talking about…” _Castiel_. He mouthed the name, making no sound.

“Cas?” Dean practically shouted.

“Yes Dean?” the angel’s voice called out.

“Nothing!” The brothers answered in unison.

Dean gripped Sam by the arm and his voice was a growl. “Are you having a thing with…” he mouthed the name and his eyes darted to the doorway.

Sam’s eyes widened. “Me?”

“You and he haven’t…” Dean made an obscene gesture.

“No. Noooo.” Sam raised his palms. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, if it’s right for you.”

“For me?”

Dean laughed but Sam could see his ears turn red. He thought about his bother’s comments about gay demons and wondered.

“Yeah. He uh, he loves you. He said so.”

“Of course he does.” Dean scoffed. “The guy loves hamburgers, and bees, and all God’s little children.”

“Yeah, well I think maybe he love-loves you. Just thought you should know.” He clapped his hands together. “And now you do.”

“Thanks for the heads up, Sweet Valley High. That all?”

Sam could see the door shut behind his brother’s eyes. If Dean couldn’t even acknowledge Cas’s man-crush he definitely wasn’t ready to hug it out about his time in Hell.

“Yeah. I just want you to be happy. With whomever.” He thought about the box and its horrific contents. “And if you need to see a professional, then we’d find the money for that.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “A professional? Like a hooker?”

“I was thinking more a psychiatrist.” Sam flinched. If Dean was going to take a swing at him, this would be the time.

Instead, his brother laughed and slapped a hand on his back. “Okay, Sammy. If I need my head shrunk I’ll let you know to start saving your pennies.” He turned and stepped into the living room. “Cas! Drop the gummi worms and beam us to Michigan!”

* * *

Chalmers was sitting half out of the driver’s seat of the Cadillac, lifting a hand weight, when his phone rang. He had no interest in developing his muscles, but the jock he was wearing had been having meltdowns since he’d killed that guy from the motel, and working out was the only thing that calmed him down. Maybe it was ‘roid rage, but this guy just kept fighting him. It was getting annoying. When he traded up to his next meatsuit he was going to give this gym rat something to remember him by.

He leaned across the passenger seat and grabbed his cell with his free hand. Only a few demons even had this number, and he’d been waiting for his lie about Dean Winchester’s secret weapon to work its way up the chain. Hell, as far as he knew it could even be true. The Winchesters always seemed to be leveling up with some new magical thingy.

“Yeah?”

It was the boss. He could tell from the sound of papers shuffling, even before the shouting voice came. “Chalmers? You there Chalmers?”

He pulled the cell away from his ear. The guy still couldn’t figure out how to use a cell phone. Neanderthal.

“I’m here.” He continued the reps on his left arm. “What’s up?”

“Orders. Follow Winchester and acquire the weapon.”

“I’ve trailed him back to Singer Salvage.” Chalmers set the weight down and looked across the scrubby lot to where the Impala was parked. Winchester had gone inside hours ago and hadn’t come out since.

“Well he’s not there now. Informant spotted him in Michigan, so get moving.”

“Will do.”

Chalmers cut the call and flung the cell as far as it would go. Then he settled behind the steering wheel and smiled. He’d once tortured a man for thirty hours in Michigan. Good times. He pulled out his straight razor and slit his arms from elbow to wrist.

“Wish I could have gotten more creative, Baby,” Chalmers said, “but I got somewhere I gotta be.” Then he leaned back, opened his mouth and a tower of black smoke erupted forth and flew east, toward Michigan.


	6. Chapter 6

In a small hunting cabin on the bank of a broad river in Michigan Dean unpacked the groceries they’d bought at the Gas-n-Sip and thought about his conversation with Sam. Had Cas really said he loved him? And if he did, why’d he say so to Sam? He watched Cas examining the bookshelf, stuffed with library castoffs. Sure, they had their difficulties, but had it gotten so bad that Cas preferred talking to Sam? Dean frowned at a can of chili. God, was he jealous of his brother? He glanced at Cas again. He needed to bite the bullet.

“Think you freaked poor Sam out the other day.”

“Did I?” Cas turned from the bookshelf to look at him and Dean glanced away, putting a can of soup into the cupboard with more concentration than he needed.

“Yeah.” He set a container of instant coffee on the counter. “Said you asked about sex.” He didn’t even bother to keep the smile from his face. “And masturbation. Said you told him he was unlucky with the ladies.”

“I was making an observation.” Cas was cradling a colorful encyclopedia about birds, flipping through it.

“Yeah. Well I think you hit a nerve.” Dean balled up the empty plastic bag, looked for somewhere to put it, and finally tossed it in a cupbord under the sink. “I know things have been strained between us, and I’m sorry. That’s my bad. But if you’ve got questions Cas, I’m here. Talk to me.”

Cas turned to the window and the sunbeams bouncing off the lake lit up his face. “Thank-you, Dean. But Sam seemed like the best source of advice at the time, given his success with celibacy.”

Dean smirked. “That’s the goal then, is it? Total abstinence? Sounds rough.”

Cas tilted his head, glancing at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “That’s the best way to deal with not being able to get what you want, isn’t it? Going without?”

Dean put a jug of milk into the musty fridge and flicked at the light bulb until it came on. Maybe Sam was right. Maybe Cas did love-love him. Maybe there was even some kind of mutual thing going on here. But what did that matter? It wasn’t like the two of them could settle down together. Hunters didn’t get a white picket fence. He looked at Cas. Sam being right didn’t change everything that was wrong. And the things he thought about doing with Cas were definitely wrong. Cas deserved someone nice. Someone who hadn’t spent half their life torturing people in Hell.

“Don’t give up, Cas. Put yourself out there. You’ll meet the right girl.”

“What if I’m not interested in that girl?”

Dean shrugged a little too casually. Picturing Cas with a guy was less comfortable but he’d be damned if he was gonna go all Ducky and cockblock his best friend over some impossible crush. “Guy then. Same game, different equipment. My advice still applies. You gotta be in it to win it.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Cas carried the bird encyclopedia to a chair by the window and began to study it in earnest.

“Listen, since we’re talking, mind if we keep that whole situation at the motel strictly between you and me?”

“The situation with the man who—”

“Yeah. That situation.”

“And the kiss?” Cas supplied, his eyes still on the book.

“Yeah. And that. Could we keep that private for now?”

“If you’d like.”

“Thanks.” Dean cleared his throat. “Cause I am not ready to have that kinda conversation with Sam. Or Bobby. Jeez. Especially not with Bobby. You get that, right?”

“I shall enjoy sharing a secret with you, Dean.”

Cas looked up from the book and Dean realized he’d been waiting for this. He’d been standing there looking forward to being pinned down by that stare. Dean sighed. Not acting on an unrequited crush was one thing, but it went against everything he’d known to hit the breaks when the interest was mutual. And he might have days of sexual tension still to slog through until they ganked the wendigo. This was gonna suck.

“Yeah? Good.” Dean cleared his throat. He needed a drink. “I’m gonna see if they got any board games in this place. Cards, maybe. You can play cards, right? That’s not, like, a deadly sin or something?”

Cas smirked. “I doubt any games you know will put me in a condition of mortal sin.”

“Is that a challenge? Don’t tease me, Cas. Cause I will see you and raise you some.” He paused in the doorway on his way to the bedroom. “I might even go all in.”

The cabin’s bedroom was small and cosy, with a window looking out on the woods and a saggy double bed. It was pushing it, Dean knew, to joke with Cas like that. The angel was a friend and a colleague and tomorrow they were gonna hunt a dangerous supernatural cannibal. Tonight they were gonna…well, what the hell were they gonna do tonight? Dean’s brain made some Technicolor suggestions. Christ. Where was that drink?

Dean grabbed a pack of cards from a shelf, gave the dusty boardgames a critical once-over and then turned to his backpack. As his fingers failed to find a bottle, his movements became more frantic. He'd packed the rum. He was sure of it. He grabbed his duffle and began to search.

“Where’s my friggin’ booze?” He said it more to himself than to Cas, but the angel stepped into the doorway and looked down at the ransacked bags. He was almost apologetic.

“We thought it would be best if you did not drink alcohol for the foreseeable future.”

“We? What we?” Dean had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer. Like a fool, he kept looking through the bags.

“The people who care about you. Sam, and Bobby, and I.”

“So you took my friggin’ booze?” He flung the bag to the floor, panic in his eyes. Could they not understand that he needed it to function? Even with the volume turned down on his memories, the thought of getting through the day, let alone the mission without assistance was absurd. He could understand Cas not getting it, but what was Sam thinking? Hell, what was Bobby thinking?

“Yes. We took your booze.”

Dean felt the pieces of the day’s earlier events fall into place. The heart-to-heart at Bobby’s had been a decoy. This trip was the real intervention. He tried to smile and failed.

“Look, Cas, I don’t mean to go all Jack Sparrow here, but if I don’t get some alcohol soon, it’s not gonna be pretty.”

Cas nodded. “I am prepared for ugliness.”

Dean grabbed his backpack and slung it over a shoulder. “So help me, I will march out of here and get it myself! I can be in Scottville in less than a day.”

“I would prevent you from leaving.” The angel looked at him with infuriating sympathy. “I’m much stronger than you.”

“So that’s how it’s gonna be? Fine.” Dean dropped the backpack and took a fighting stance. “Let’s go!” He kept his anger at the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want fighting to turn into something else. He forced himself to think of Cas as the guy who’d connived with Sam and Bobby to isolate him from the necessities of hunter life, and not as a nearly invincible super being he’d like to get naked with.

“I have no wish to hurt you, Dean.” Cas sat on the bed and looked up expectantly, waiting to see if the hunter would strike him.

Dean dropped his fists. “I don’t have time to sit here detoxing like some child actress, Cas. I’ve got work to do.”

“Actually, this is all you have to do.”

Dean stood motionless as the meaning of Cas’ words sunk in. Then he collapsed onto the bed next to Cas and hung his head.

“There’s no wendigo out here, is there?”

“No, there isn’t.”

“You lied to me? You all lied?” His fear and anger vied for control now. Anger was stronger. “Sam, and Bobby? And you? Why? Why would you do that, Cas?”

The angel smiled, wide and unguarded. “To get you alone, of course.”

* * *

Chalmers pulled the jeep to a halt at the end of the pitted service road and stepped out, the boots his new body was wearing crunching on the gravel. He’d taken the Park Ranger while he chopped firewood. It hadn’t gone as smoothly and he’d had to break the guy’s neck. Chalmers stretched the meatsuit. It was a good body, even if it was dead. Big. Strong. Used to working outdoors. It would be great to kill with. And with the original occupant gone he wouldn’t have to fight for dominance just to scratch his ass or gouge someone’s eyes out. It would be a nice change.

He unfolded a map across the hood of the jeep. The forest was enormous, and finding Winchester wouldn’t be easy, but Chalmers didn’t mind. He liked the woods. It was vast, and wet, and everything was decaying, or trying to consume everything else. Nature was one of the most vicious things he’d ever seen, and he never got tired of it. He looked at the old watch on his new arm. It was getting late.

He grabbed his backpack and set out on foot. With luck, in a day or so, Winchester would be dead and decaying too.

* * *

Dean groaned. This was not what he’d had in mind when he’d fantasized about being alone with Cas. A fantasy was making out in the back of the Impala in the rain. There wasn’t anything fantastic about how he felt right now. A skull-splitting headache had set in six hours after they’d arrived. Now he had the sweats and his stomach was flip-flopping. Soon he’d get the shakes. By this time tomorrow he’d be balls-to-the-wall sick and losing his mind for a drink.

“You should eat.” Castiel set a plate in front of him. “I prepared you a sandwich and removed all evidence of the Maillard reaction, as your mother used to do.”

“Wow, Cas. PB and J with the crusts cut off.” Under other circumstances, Dean might have been touched, but eating was the last thing on his mind. “This is great. Thanks.” He ran a hand over his neck and it came away wet. “Look, if we’re gonna be here until I’m stone cold sober, I’m gonna need some stuff.”

Castiel’s voice had a wary edge. “What kind of stuff?”

“Healthy stuff.” Dean’s mind raced, going over the ingredients he’d need and how to camouflage them. “Fruit juice. And since there’s no friggin’ wendigo to kill, it’d be nice to make myself useful. I can bake a mean pizza.” Dean had never baked a pizza. “So uh, peppers and mushrooms. Pepperoni. Uh. Flour, sugar and yeast for the dough. And a big round pan to bake it on.” He strode to the woodstove. “And some oatmeal for breakfast. Dean held up a pot. “But we got the wrong kind of pot for making oatmeal. What I need is a stainless steel pressure cooker.”

* * *

Sam dropped a bucket of fried chicken on Bobby’s coffee table and collapsed onto the green couch.

“’Bout time.” Bobby entered from the kitchen with beer, passed one to Sam, then pried the lid off the bucket and helped himself. “Where’d you go for the chicken? Alabama?”

Sam pushed his hair back off his face. “I drove around some, thinking.” And if he was being honest, he enjoyed driving the Impala. Should it have told him something that Dean’s longest relationship had been with a car?

Bobby chewed chicken and swallowed. “’Bout Dean?”

Sam nodded. As disturbing as Dean’s memories of Hell had been they weren’t what he found himself dwelling on. Given enough time anyone might do things they regret in Hell, but the sexual images of Castiel seemed more relevant. “I think there might be something going on with him,” he paused, unsure of how Bobby might take the news, “and Castiel.”

Bobby’s mouth twisted. “What kind o’ somethin’?”

Sam looked at his beer. He wondered if he needed to re-evaluate all his brother’s male friendships. Had Dean been hiding his feelings their whole lives? And what kind of brother did that make him for not noticing? Sam thought of all the times he’d prayed to Castiel to no effect only to see him appear the moment his name passed Dean’s lips. He should have suspected something. Of course even if he had suspected something, it wouldn’t have been anything like this.

“Well,” he said, leaning back, “they’ve been through a lot together, and they have a, uh, profound bond.” God, that sounded even gayer to him now than when he’d first heard it. “I know Castiel has feelings for him. And I think Dean cares about him, too.”

Bobby swallowed beer. “Your brother’s got a big heart.”

Sam took a breath, heat crawling up his face. “I think things have gone further than just feelings.” If the images he’d seen were any evidence then things had gone further than he’d ever thought possible. No wonder Castiel had been asking about sex. Hadn’t Dean explained anything to him before he, before they…. He frowned. Dean had been screwing up their hunts with his drinking. Had the booze affected his ethical decisions too? Sam pushed the idea away. Dean loved Castiel. He wouldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to. But mightn’t he have been a little too drunk, and gotten caught up in the moment, and made some assumptions about what Castiel understood? That sounded like Dean.

Bobby took a drag on his beer. “Are ya sure?”

Sam’s cheeks dimpled. “As sure as you have the world’s finest collection of shitty ball caps.”

Bobby looked offended and adjusted his hat. “Well the head under this cap ain’t so dumb as you boys think. Might be somethin’ goin’ on? Please! Those two are one candlelit dinner away from promise rings ‘n matchin’ tattoos. Why do ya think I let him take Dean to Michigan?”

Sam, who actually did share a matching tattoo with Dean, albeit one designed to prevent possession, pursed his lips. “So you knew the whole time?”

“I’d have to be Helen Keller not to.” Bobby swigged his beer. “Idjit.”

* * *

Castiel entered the cabin with two armloads of firewood. Dean emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on a towel. This next phase of the plan needed to be careful and focused. Like surgery. He was oddly grateful they’d sent him here with Cas. It would have been impossible to get this next item past Sam or Bobby. But with Cas he put the odds at 50-50. Maybe 60-40. It all depended on how much the angel knew about moonshining.

“Thanks for those supplies,” he said, trying not to look at the bags and pans on the counter or to think about the words yeast and sugar. He wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Not a problem.” The angel set the firewood by the stove. “How are you feeling?”

Dean swallowed the bitter nausea and forced a smile. “Awesome. Just awesome.” This was it. Be smooth. Poker face. He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Got a small plumbing problem. Think I can fix it, though. Any chance you can get a coil of copper tubing?” Inside his head Dean heard Steve Earle begin to sing Copperhead Road and he hoped Castiel didn’t have his mind-reading ears on.

* * *

Castiel sat in a worn armchair in the bedroom, listening to Dean Winchester’s sleep-heavy breathing. They had played poker until Dean had lost enough games that he decided to call it a night, and crawl into bed. But he hadn’t gone to sleep. He’d had difficulty getting comfortable, and then had been thirsty, and then claimed he “couldn’t sleep with Cas watching him,” which was ridiculous, because he’d done exactly that numerous times before. Now, as he watched Dean’s chest rise and fall, he reflected that this was an opportunity for redemption.

His analysis of the images he’d seen while holding the Purple Heart pin was almost complete. He flipped through them in his mind like a child with a Viewfinder. The memories were distressing, especially when he felt the emotions Dean had attached to them. Anger, guilt, fear, and humiliation. If he had pulled Dean from Hell sooner he could have spared him this. He had been too slow. The Righteous Man had suffered unnecessarily, and was anguishing still as his psychological injuries festered.

Castiel reviewed the images of himself that had been locked into the military award, puzzling over them. Some were violent. This scenario involving aggressive penetration, for example, would be sure to result in a certain level of discomfort. Still, it relieved him to think that Dean might harbor an attraction to his vessel specifically, rather than to the stranger from the motel. He was confident now that Jimmy was not attracted to Dean, but perhaps Dean had been attracted to Jimmy. That might explain the presence of such images in the hunter’s mind. He would have to explore this possibility in greater depth.

The nature of the images was also in question. They weren’t memories. He had never been in such situations with Dean, nor had Jimmy. They must be dreams, or fantasies. Why would Dean lock away fantasies? They were forceful and explicit, but he didn’t sense hatred attached to them. Some were exhilarating. One, of the two of them in the Impala, was unexpectedly tender. Why would Dean lock away tenderness? Perhaps the memory spell had been indiscriminate, akin to slamming a door, regardless of what got trapped inside.

Of course if Dean wasn’t attracted to Jimmy, then there was another possible explanation for the images in Dean’s mind. Castiel leaned back in his chair, thinking of Dean’s fantasy of kissing in the car while it rained, and allowed his heart to fill with hope.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean had planned to leave the cabin early, but without the booze it had been difficult to sleep, despite his exhaustion. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d fallen asleep instead of passing out. Cas had settled into an armchair nearby and when the first half hour of wakefulness had passed he’d offered to read to him, which was too close to being treated like an invalid for Dean’s taste. He’d grumbled about it, but there was nothing like falling asleep with Cas nearby at full angel strength. It made him feel safe as few things had. When he finally drifted off Dean slept longer than he’d planned. By the time he cracked an eyelid the sun was streaming into the bedroom, highlighting every dust mote in the air. It was almost noon.

He’d come to Michigan to kill a wendigo and hide the box in a salt mine, but since arriving his priorities had shifted. He needed to establish a source of alcohol as soon as possible. And with his timeline, and the ingredients he could scrape together, it was going to be nasty. He wasn’t talking bottom shelf nasty, he was talking jailhouse toilet nasty. Still, it was better than nothing.

While Cas had been birdwatching yesterday Dean had packed the yeast, sugar, and juice into a bag, which he now slung over a shoulder in what he hoped was a casual manner as he strolled into the main room. Cas sat by the window, reading a water-damaged murder mystery, a mug of coffee on the windowsill.

“Good morning,” Cas said. “How was your sleep?”

“Fine.” Dean poured himself a coffee and took a gulp. “Long.” With the afternoon sun streaming in, the angel looked almost human. “Good book?”

“Yes. The objective is to identify the killer.” He frowned at the cover, which featured a man in a bowler hat with a curly mustache. “This Belgian is very suspicious. He’s at every crime scene.”

Dean smirked. “Let me know how it turns out.”

“I shall.” Cas looked up at him with a defenselessness that made Dean feel broken inside. “I thought perhaps this evening I might give over control of this vessel to Jimmy Novak and the two of you could spend the evening together.”

Dean stopped breathing. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“You could play poker. Talk. Increase your level of intimacy.”

“Uh thanks for the offer,” Dean tried not to look as disturbed as he felt. “But Jimmy and I are fine as is.”

“Are you sure? He’s not very good at poker.”

Dean felt his guts churn. Whatever Cas was getting at, he didn’t like it. “Winning at poker sounds great,” he said, “but it ain’t worth missing an evening with you. Okay?” He liked the way that made Cas smile. And that made him feel even shittier about what he had to do next. He took a step toward the door. “Thought I might grab some exercise,” he said, the lie heavy on his lips. “That cool with you?”

“Are you feeling capable of exercise?” Cas’s eyes were skeptical.

“Yeah. I think I can manage a stroll through the woods.” He hoped. At the moment it felt as if the only thing holding him upright was the weight of his boots. But he needed to get things set up before he lost all dexterity in his hands. “I just need some air, Cas. I’m not making a break for it.”

“I’m not your jailer.” The angel’s gaze returned to his book. “But if you’re not back for dinner I will come and find you.” It sounded part promise, part threat. Dean added ‘sexy hide and seek’ to the list of things he’d like to try when he wasn’t feeling like death’s doggy bag.

Dean got fifty feet from the cabin before leaning against a tree for support and retching until he felt like his guts were going to come up. He rinsed his mouth with water, careful not to drink too much. He’d need it. Retrieving the pressure cooker and copper tubing from the bushes where he’d hidden them yesterday, he made his way into the forest.

The salt mine was a series of shafts, halls, and rooms carved into the rock, abandoned since the 1960s. Dean made his way inside, switched on his flashlight, and followed a seam of quartz to a small side room. The air smelled damp and tasted stale. As quickly as his trembling hands would allow, he assembled the still. The ventilation was crap, but the need for secrecy was vital. He’d have to take the risk, and try not to choke to death on carbon monoxide or blow himself to smithereens. Nothing says ‘I have a drinking problem’ like accidentally killing yourself for a mouthful of shitty booze.

While the ingredients simmered over a fire Dean ran a hand across the rough floor. It would take some doing, but with the right tools—a hammer and chisel, maybe—he could bury the box in here. At the very least it would help pass the time while he waited for the still to do its thing. He nodded. Next time he’d bring the box.

He brought his eyes back to the pressure cooker and made a face. This wasn’t going to be any mellow sipping whiskey. Not by a long shot. He glanced at his watch. He could cook for another three hours, tops, before he had to get back to the cabin. The last thing he wanted was Cas showing up to check on him.

* * *

Castiel finished the novel and ran his hand admiringly over the wrinkled cover. The story had not ended as he had expected. But now that the Belgian detective had revealed the truth, everything made perfect sense. This kind of innovative thinking was exactly what he needed in relation to Dean’s problem.

The memories trapped in John Winchester’s military pin were traumatic, and Dean had been carrying them alone, and blaming himself. The fantasies the memory spell had caught were sexual and violent, but also desperate, even affectionate. Which left the question of why Dean was having such fantasies. He had not seemed interested in spending the evening with Jimmy. If Castiel was reading him correctly, the suggestion had displeased and alarmed him. Dean preferred time with him. He’d said so.

As much as he would like to think Dean returned his feelings, Castiel needed to consider other possibilities. Had his attraction somehow leaked into the man’s subconscious? He hoped not. That felt like a violation, even if it were accidental. Perhaps the fantasies were a coping mechanism. Dean’s brain may be protecting itself by re-writing his distressing memories. Conceivably, Castiel’s image was just the easiest image to substitute for Alistair’s—someone strong and familiar who wasn’t a demonic psychopath.

He looked out the window at the slow, steady river. The power of water always impressed him. He had watched it shape the landscape, repeating a cycle that led inevitably to the ocean. Like his thoughts led inevitably to Dean. Castiel sighed. He was being a coward. If he really wanted to know the truth about the fantasies in the box he needed to ask Dean.

* * *

The tracking spell led Chalmers to the abandoned mine by dusk. He touched the wall and pulled his hand back, hissing as the salt stung his skin. Being surrounded by this much salt was dangerous, but the mineral’s purity was tempered somewhat by the smell of old sweat, smoke, and the sharp scent of something rotting. He fingered the dimpled beige uniform hat before pushing it firmly onto his head and entering the mine.

No pain, no gain. Chalmers gritted his teeth, ducked his head and followed the rancid aroma. He soon found himself crouched over a pressure cooker hooked to a coil of copper tubing. Fermenting alcohol, if the wretched mess even deserved the name. He put a hand into the charcoal beneath the pot, still hot.

Dean Winchester had been here, and he would come again. Chalmers smiled, turned off his flashlight, and sat to wait in the dark, pulling his collar up so he wouldn’t make contact with the wall when he leaned against it.

When he eventually killed Dean Winchester, and he would, he could fabricate some story about the magical weapon—how it gave the hunter powerful strength or stamina but was tragically destroyed in the melee. As long as he wasn’t expected to produce the damn thing, he was golden.

He passed the time imagining what he would do when Winchester arrived. His favorite fantasy involved a chokehold, followed by getting creative with the dead Ranger’s hunting knife, secure in a sheath at his waist.

* * *

Bobby Singer had been correct. Dean was wily. Castiel could smell the alcohol molecules on him the moment he’d returned from his walk, but he hadn’t let on that he knew. Instead they read books while listening to a classic rock station out of Detroit. It was almost midnight when Dean announced he was going to bed.

A thorough search of the cabin once the hunter was unconscious hadn’t turned up any suspicious bottles, but it had revealed that a number of items were missing, the pressure cooker and copper tubing among them. Castiel wasn’t particularly worried. He’d expected Dean to resist attempts to control him. That was in his nature. His insistence on freedom, even to his own detriment, was intriguing. Admirable, even.

Castiel had given a lot of thought to Dean’s self-destructive drinking habit. And of one thing he was certain: Dean drank to dull his pain. As a soldier, Castiel knew what it was to carry painful memories. They could be a heavy burden, and Dean was buckling under their weight. Drinking was a coping mechanism that felt familiar to Dean, maybe even safe. He arranged himself in the worn armchair and contemplated the nature of memory, and of pain.

* * *

Dean emerged from the bathroom and gripped the wall for support as he made his way back to the bed. When he’d set up the still he’d had pictured a daily walk that ended at the salt mine, and then a few hours of distilling. Instead he was wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket, feeling like a sweaty piece of demon crap. Just going to the bathroom had been exhausting. There wouldn’t be any walks this morning.

The bed squeaked and sagged as Cas sat beside him, looking solemn. He passed him a glass of water and Dean drained it.

“I’ve been thinking about your problem.”

Dean ground his teeth. “For crying out loud, Cas, I don’t have a drinking problem.” Even to his own ears, the claim sounded ridiculous. He sat on his hands to stop their shaking.

“Oh, I know that.” Cas nodded earnestly.

“You know?” Dean hugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders and wondered if an angel could be that gullible. “Then why are we playing Betty Ford here when I could be out doing my job?”

“Drinking is just a symptom.” Cas inclined his head toward Dean’s duffle. “I was referring to your other problem. The one in the box.”

Dean stilled. “What do you know about it?”

“Almost everything.”

Dean’s eyes went to his bags on the floor by the bed, and he thought about his stolen alcohol. “You opened the box.” He slammed a hand on the mattress, sending a bouncy shockwave through them both. “And Sam? Did he…”

“Yes.” Cas looked chastised. “He touched it before I realized what it was. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Dean laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I bet Sammy’s friggin’ sorry too.” He bit his tongue, hard. If he started crying now he didn’t think he’d be able to stop. How could he face Sam again? It was one thing to have your brother walk in on you with a nubile waitress, but this was a whole other world of messed up. For a moment Dean never wanted to leave the cabin again. “Is he okay?” He looked the angel in the eye. “Tell me the truth, Cas.”

“The visions were only temporary. If it’s any comfort, I’ve noticed that humans have a strong capacity for forgetting.”

“And you?” He searched his face, expecting to see judgment, or disgust, but saw neither.

“I have excellent recall.”

Dean shuddered. “Great. That’s just great.”

“I also have questions.”

He slapped his hands on his knees. “Well then lay them on me, man. It’s not like this day can get any worse.”

“Are you sexually attracted to me, Dean?”

“What the hell kinda question is that?” Dean looked at the wall. If he looked into those big blue eyes he didn’t think he could lie.

Castiel reached out and put a hand on top of Dean’s, which felt rough, and moist. “Do you love-love me?” he asked, using the words he’d no doubt overheard Sam use in Bobby’s kitchen. The angel picked up Dean’s trembling hand and raised it to his lips. Dean was suddenly aware of the fact that they were on a bed.

“I was wrong. This day can get worse.” He pulled away and stood, hiding his hand inside the blanket.

“I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.” Castiel shifted on the bed, springs squeaking.

Dean wondered how much weight and force the bed could withstand and then pushed the thought away. He walked to the window, looking out.

“How is this okay?” he asked. “You’re walking around in some other dude’s body, kissing people. Isn’t that a violation of your rental agreement or something?” Dean raised his hand to his mouth, as if transferring the imprint of Cas’ kiss from his hand to his lips.

He turned. Cas was watching him.

“Jimmy agreed for me to use his body. Most of the time he’s not aware of what I do with it.”

“So it’s all ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’?”

“I thought it would be better that way. Safer. For all of us.” Cas tilted his head. “I’ve fought and killed in this vessel. Why would I require permission for kissing?”

“Because…you just do. Sex and violence aren’t the same.” Dean wondered if he believed that. And if he did, why didn’t it make him feel any better?

“You would prefer if I obtained Jimmy’s consent.” Castiel had that look he always got when trying to understand human customs like wearing ugly Christmas sweaters.

“Yes. No. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, because nothing’s gonna happen.” As Dean recalled, Jimmy hadn’t liked him much when they had met, but that may have had to do with his kidnapping the guy and trying to prevent him from seeing his family. Although truth be told, that had been Sam’s idea.

Dean could see Cas wasn’t listening, his head bent and his focus elsewhere, talking to Jimmy on some private line. Dean was glad he wasn’t privy to that conversation. You had to have some kind of super-faith to agree to ride shotgun in your own body, and the guy was married to a woman, so he wasn’t sure Jimmy would be down with Cas getting his freak on with anyone, let alone some dude Jimmy barely knew. So Dean was surprised when only a few moments had passed before Cas spoke again.

“Jimmy consents to my use of his body in this way, but only with you.”

He said it casually, like he was mentioning there was a chance of rain tomorrow. Just passing along information. Like it didn’t tear the bandages off everything raw and frightened inside of Dean.

* * *

Dean stood with his back to the window, digging his nails into the wool blanket wrapped around him. His physical distress was increasing, but he was fighting it. Castiel was proud of him, even as he found his unwillingness to accept help absurd.

“Only with me?” The hunter narrowed his eyes at him. “Why?”

“I explained the situation.” Castiel blushed. When he said it like that, it sounded so simple. In fact, he had allowed Jimmy to feel his love for Dean, pouring its depth and breadth into his consciousness and allowing him to bask in its intensity and timelessness. Jimmy had understood immediately. He’d been in love too.

“Well. That’s great.” Dean clutched the blanket and cleared his throat. “But you should talk him into loosening the rules. You know. So you could kiss someone for real.”

The evasion was too clumsy to bother challenging. Dean knew exactly how real their kisses had been. Castiel looked at the sweat beading on the hunter’s forehead.

“Your detox is going well. If you like, I can alleviate some of your discomfort.” He looked to where Dean was trying to hide his hand in the blanket. “Your tremors, for instance.”

“Thanks.” Dean gritted his teeth in what he probably hoped looked like a smile. “But I’m fine.”

Castiel watched Dean suffer. It was unreasonable. Stubborn. Foolish. “Why do you crave punishment?”

“Are you friggin’ kidding me?” Dean paced the floor, as if looking for an exit. “You saw what I…you saw.”

“What happened in Hell was not your fault.” Castiel looked at the duffel bag, where Dean’s hellish memories were stored in the fragile box. “If I had gotten there sooner—”

“Damn it Cas, stop apologizing, would ya?” Dean sat on the bed again and patted the angel’s back. The patting turned to rubbing and then Dean pulled his arm away. “You don’t friggin’ get it.”

“Explain it to me.”

“That stuff I did to those souls down there? I liked it.” Dean ground out the words. “It was pleasure. Adrenaline. For a few glorious seconds I forgot I was in Hell. And when you,” he motioned to the angel’s hands and mouth, “do that…all it does is remind me of it. So thanks, but no thanks.” Dean groaned. “I’m a mess, Cas. You don’t want anything to do with this. Trust me.”

Wary of apologizing again, Castiel chose his words carefully. “It was not my intention to remind you of Hell.”

Dean patted his back again. “Don’t sweat it. This is my fault and I’ll throw myself on that grenade if it means protecting the people I care about.”

Castiel’s stomach tightened. He had never realized how incompatible love was with bodily comfort. “Am I one of those people?”

“Are you one of—?” Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. “Jesus Cas, you’re… we’re ….” He exhaled loudly. “Man, that is a whole other conversation.” He moved as if to stand again but Castiel pulled him back and pinned him to the bed, which shrieked a metallic protest but held their weight.

“What if I don’t want a conversation?”


	8. Chapter 8

“You’re scaring me, Cas.”

Dean stared up at the angel, eyes wild. Cas was looking at him over as if deciding where to start eating first. Dean wondered if he’d ever seen him look this dangerous. The idea of Cas wanting him made him feel drunk, and with those angel superpowers the only thing standing between Dean and the most extreme sexual experience of the millennium was Cas’ self-control. Cas wasn’t used to processing feelings, let alone sexual arousal. Dean remembered what being a horny teenager had felt like, and he wasn’t sure if Cas’ willpower was up to the challenge. And then he wasn’t sure if he loved that thought or hated it.

“Don’t sweat it.” The words, probably intended to be comforting, alarmed Dean even more. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Cas added, releasing his hold and pulling back, leaving Dean with a mix of relief and regret. “Ever injure yourself fixing a car, Dean?”

Dean shifted to lean against the pillows, still wary. “More times ’n I can count.”

“But you don’t remember every time.”

“No.” Dean thought about how many times he’d replaced something on the Impala or one of the junkers in Bobby’s yard. “I’ve done a lot of work on cars.”

“Exactly. Your brain has difficulty distinguishing between them. So no matter how many injuries you've had, you’re not afraid to fix a car.”

“What are you getting at?” Cas was right. He wasn’t afraid to fix a car, despite a few serious burns and how close he’d once come to losing his left thumb. Of course the Impala hadn’t ever... done any of the things Alistair did.

“Maybe you don’t need fewer memories. Maybe you need more.”

“Come again?”

"You've been avoiding anything that reminds you of Hell. And when you do get reminded, you go into a fight or flight response." Cas’ mouth curled up on one side. "Locking yourself into the bathroom, for example."

"Shut up. I was sick."

"My point is that additional memories, provided they're similar but not frightening, may reduce the anxiety."

Dean licked his lips. It sounded like Cas was saying that the cure for his Hell hangover was so much good sex that he overwhelmed the panic attacks. It sounded like he was saying that someday his memories of Hell would just be another cool scar. He wished he could believe that. But Dean Winchester didn’t have that kind of luck.

"How's that supposed to work exactly?"

Cas outlined his plan in graphic detail, and the way the color crept up his pale skin made a warm feeling blossom in Dean’s chest. By the time Cas was done explaining Dean didn’t even notice that his hands had stopped shaking.

* * *

Sam had just stepped into the hall, fresh off a haunted playground job in Harrisburg, when his cell phone rang. He noted with alarm that the caller ID said Abby Normal. Dean, calling to yell at him, probably. He’d expected this sooner.

“Dean?” He held the phone away from his ear and braced for the shouting.

“Hey.”

His brother sounded tired. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Tentatively he brought the phone closer.

“How are you feeling, Sammy?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“Like I’m on a rollercoaster with a keg of nitro.” Dean paused, and the line was silent for a few seconds. Then, “What can you tell me about neuron pathways?”

“Like in the brain?”

“You know any others?”

Sam ignored the dig. He’d expected worse. “Okay. Uh, I don’t know much. A neuron is a nerve cell in your brain, and they’re connected to other neurons by synapses, which are—”

“Hold up there, Dr. McCoy,” Dean cut in. “Dumb it down for me.”

“Okay.” Sam wiped a hand across his face. Biology was not his strong suit. “A neural pathway is like a road between two points in your brain. And messages move from one point to the other.”

“Messages. Like memories?” Dean’s voice was tense.

Sam couldn’t help but remember the deluge of Dean’s memories, although the details were less distinct now, mostly a jumble of limbs and blood. “Memories, thoughts, feelings. Anything.”

“And these pathways, they’re flexible?”

“Kinda.” Sam looked out the window at the Impala. “Say your brain is Sioux Falls, and you usually take the I-29 to get to Bobby’s. You drive that route all the time so that pathway gets engrained. Then one day you start taking a shortcut. Eventually that shortcut just becomes the way you get to Bobby’s. The other pathway still exists, but you don’t use it anymore.”

“Shortcuts. Got it.” Dean exhaled loudly. “And the amig— amigda—”

“Amygdala?”

“Yeah. What you said. Tell me about that.”

Sam pulled out his laptop and started searching. “Uh, well, it’s part of the brain. There’s two of them. The one in the right hemisphere has to do with fight or flight responses and the left one—wait. Why are you asking?” He pictured Dean, trapped in the woods in the grip of withdrawal, trying to perform brain surgery on himself with tools found in a cabin.

Dean chuckled faintly. “You really don’t wanna know, Sam. Trust me on this.”

“Where’s Castiel? Is he with you? Put him on.” Sam could hear the panic in his voice.

“Cas is fine. We’re both fine.” There was a pause and then the angel’s deep voice was on the line.

“Hello, Sam.”

“Dean’s not doing anything stupid, is he?”

“No.”

The pounding of Sam’s heart slowed. “That’s good.” He laughed, nervously. “Had me scared for a minute. Thought Dean was considering uh,” he struggled to recall the word, “trepanning.”

“Don’t be afraid, Sam. None of the penetration I’m proposing involves the brain.” Castiel ended the call, and Sam sat staring at the phone.

* * *

Cas removed his suit jacket, laid it on a chair, and then stepped into Dean’s personal space as if he belonged there. They had been talking all morning. Cas had tried to get Dean to eat breakfast, which he refused, since his guts felt like water. But he’d finally downed some crackers and chicken broth to stop that glare of concerned disapproval. Now they stood staring at one another in the main room of the cabin.

“Where did you want to start?”

Dean felt a muscle twitch in his thigh. This was it. “Good question. Uh.” He ran a hand over his jaw. “How ‘bout kissing?”

“Did you find the kissing traumatic?”

Dean tried not to read judgment into the question. Given everything they’d done to him in Hell he supposed Cas might think kissing seemed relatively mild. But the twisted intimacy of it had really bothered him. And if Cas’ plan didn’t work, then no harm no foul. They could come back from some awkward kissing. There was no coming back from some of the other stuff.

“Yeah.” Dean nodded. “I did.”

“Then it seems a reasonable starting point.”

Dean remembered the porno kiss Cas had laid on him at the motel. “Mind if I take point?”

“As you wish.” Cas leaned forward and tiled his chin up. “You may begin at any time.” It shouldn’t have been sexy. It really shouldn’t.

“Right.” Dean licked his lips, hesitating. “Just so I’m clear, this is purely medicinal?”

“The theory is sound. As for practical impact,” Cas shrugged, “you tell me.”

Tentatively Dean leaned in and pressed his mouth to Cas’ and his pupils blew large before he closed his eyes. Dean didn’t kid himself that he deserved this, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to enjoy it. Cas’ mouth was soft, wet, and yielding. It made his mind imagine things.

Dean pulled back. “Hold up a sec.” When Cas looked concerned he added, “Just give me a minute.” He turned and adjusted himself in his pants. Given Cas’ theory, he could see things escalating into X-rated territory pretty quickly, and he wasn’t even gonna think about doing something like that unless he was sure. Like ‘Led Zeppelin is the greatest rock band of all time’ kind of sure.

“Can we, uh, take your idea on a test run? Before things go all Deliverance in here?”

Cas cocked his head. “What did you have in mind?”

Dean held up a finger and darted into the main room, returning with a battered tape player. He stalked to the chair where he’d thrown his jacket and pulled a tape from the pocket. Tapping the cassette on his palm he returned to the player, slotted the tape into the well, then held a hand protectively over the buttons.

He turned to Cas, his face hard. “Just so we’re clear, if I say stop, we stop. Understood?”

Cas nodded, looking solemn. “What do you want me to do?”

Dean dragged in a ragged breath and held out a hand. “Dance with me, Cas. As long as I can stand it.” He led Cas toward him and then pressed the button. Brassy music started to play. Dean wrapped his arms around Cas and lay his head on his shoulder.

Sinatra began to sing, “Heaven, I’m in Heaven…” Dean exhaled. This was it. His personal record was 37 seconds. That was as long as he’d ever been able to listen before the shame and fear overwhelmed him. If Cas was right, maybe things would be different this time.

Dean ran a hand across Cas’ back, enjoying the crisp feel of the dress shirt against his fingers, and Cas’ muscles underneath, solid and reassuring. It was difficult to remember that his actual form was some kind of big Gumby of holy light.

“I didn’t think there would be dancing,” Cas admitted. “If I had known, I would have practiced.”

“That’s okay,” Dean assured him. “Just let me lead.” There wouldn’t be any fancy footwork, but he knew how to sway to music.

“You’ll have to.” Cas leaned his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I’ve only watched people do this before. It’s very…intimate.”

“Yeah.” Dean thought of how intimate things had gotten with Alistair and remembered to take a breath. “It is that.” Cas smelled clean, with a hint of cologne. Dean supposed he used his angel mojo to maintain whatever molecules Jimmy had on his skin and clothes when Cas first…Dean hesitated. There was no good way to describe possession, even by an angel. At least Jimmy had gotten a say in the matter. Although having his blessing on this hookup felt weirder than weird. It reminded Dean of when he’d had to ask his dad to borrow the Impala. And now he and Cas were parking in lover’s lane and Dean was pressed against him like a tipsy date. He didn’t know if Cas was the boy or the girl or the car in that metaphor, and he wasn’t sure it mattered. He brought his attention back to the music. They were past the 37 second mark. A personal best. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

Cas squeezed him, interrupting his thoughts. “Is this okay?”

“S’fine.”

“You can talk about it,” Cas said. “If that helps.”

If Sam had said something that touchy-feely Dean would have compared him to one of the ladies from The View, but coming from Cas in that midnight voice of his the offer sounded appealing. Cas didn’t see the weakness in talking. After weighing the pros and cons, Dean didn’t either. “He uh, he used to sing this to me.” He cleared his throat. “Alistair, I mean.”

Cas nodded. “Would you like me to do that?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Angels often sing,” Cas said. “My garrison sang songs of praise together.”

Dean smiled against the angel’s shoulder. “Are we talking Venna Boys Choir or more a Tom Waits kinda thing?”

“More akin to the Red Army Chorus.” Cas smiled wistfully. “If they were also fearsome warriors of God,” he added.

“So you’ve got a good singing voice?”

Cas shrugged. “I haven’t had a lot of call for it lately.”

Dean was picturing dragging Cas to a karaoke night, maybe doing a little drunken Bohemian Rhapsody when he noticed Sinatra was now singing about baubles and bangles jing-jing-a-linging. They were into the next song.

“Alright then.” Dean dropped his arms and moved to the tape player, rewinding to the start of the dreaded song. “Let’s hear those golden pipes, Cas.”

“Heaven, I’m in Heaven…” When Alistair had sung to him it had been a mocking threat. Cas, on the other hand, had actually been in Heaven, albeit the weird angel section of it where everything was wavelengths and energy. Hearing the words from his mouth felt different.

Cas sounded nothing like a choirboy. He sounded like someone singing a lullaby with a voice they hadn’t used in weeks. Cas whisper-sang into his ear and ran his fingers through Dean’s hair in a perfect recreation of the memories he’d seen. Dean clung to Cas, fighting the panic that wanted to rise in his chest. You’re safe, he reminded himself. You’re safe, you’re safe, you’re safe. He concentrated on Cas’ rough voice, on the feel of his waist and back, and the firm heat of his body. It wasn’t exactly Heaven with this tight ball of fear in his chest, but it wasn’t Hell either. Not by a long shot.

* * *

Dean had been wrong about the kissing. It had changed everything. He sat in a chair in the main room of the cabin, pretending to read a magazine about fishing. He shifted, trying to find a position where the chair’s loose spring wasn’t digging into his shoulder, and stole a peek at Cas. The angel was reading the bird encyclopedia again, that concentration looking good on him. Really good. Dean drank water and shifted again. Technically they hadn’t gone past first base, but having sexual fantasies about Cas and necking with the guy while slow dancing to Sinatra wasn’t exactly their usual Friday night.

Dean yawned. He was dog tired, but scared to sleep. Alistair was dead, but he’d be seeing those white eyes in his dreams tonight. He gulped water and wished it was a glass of Jack. Sleep was a problem he needed to sort soon, because even with the broken spring, if he didn’t move to the bed he was gonna nod off in the chair.

“It’s late,” Dean said, slapping the magazine down and standing. “I’m gonna crash.” He pointed a thumb in the direction of the bedroom. “You coming?”

Cas turned a page in his book. “I don’t require sleep.”

“Fair ‘nuf. But I do. And if you wanted to hang out close by, I’d be cool with that.” Dean put his hands in his pockets and bounced nervously on the balls of his feet.

Cas looked up at him. “You’re frightened.”

“Shut up. You’re frightened.”

Cas made an expression of tolerant disbelief that Dean had seen on Sam numerous times.

“Okay, yeah. Maybe I’m a little anxious, but today dredged up some stuff, and I’d rather not spend the night being tortured.”

“I could enter your dreams if you like.”

“No!” Dean had an idea of some of the places his subconscious might go after today’s tonsil hockey session and he’d rather not have Cas see that. “I mean, let’s keep that as a backup plan. If it seems like things are starting to go sideways just wake me up. Okay?”

“I won’t leave you to languish in your nightmares, Dean.”

“Thanks.” Dean stripped to his t-shirt and briefs and climbed into the bed, wrestling the pillow into submission. He lay on his stomach, watching as Cas settled into the armchair nearby with his book.

“You could read over here. If you wanted.”

Cas looked up. “On the bed?”

“Yeah.” Dean raised a palm. “I won’t try anything. Promise.”

“That’s not a concern,” Cas assured him.

“Well, I didn’t want you thinking I’m tryna strongarm you.” Into sex, Dean added in his head. Or cuddling.

“Strongarm me?” Cas smiled. “I could take you. In a battle of strength, I mean.”

“As if!” Dean slapped the spot next to him, trying not to think about Cas taking him in any other sense. He failed. “Just shut up and come here.”

Cas settled next to him, sitting up, and Dean moved so that his head was against Cas’ thigh. It was solid and warm. Sleep took him before he had a chance to examine the feeling bubbling in his chest.

He woke the next morning with his face burrowed into Cas’ armpit, but the angel had no smell of sweat. Only fresh laundry, clean skin, and Jimmy’s deodorant. He raised his head and squinted at the sunshine filtering through the curtains and across the bedspread.

Dean opened and closed his mouth, feeling furry-tongued. “G’morning.”

“To you as well. Did you have a restful sleep?”

“Near enough.” The important part was that he hadn’t had a nightmare. At least, not one he could recall.

For the first time in days, he was legitimately hungry. But real food would have to wait. He needed to go to the mine and check on the still. There was also the little task of burying the box containing his dad’s purple heart.

He made his way to the bathroom, showered, dressed, and brushed his teeth.

“So. That box.” Dean jerked his head toward his duffle. “Thought I’d bury it in a salt mine this morning.” A guilty flush raced up his neck. Not even a day into the relationship—if medicinal kissing and dancing could be called that—and he was already lying to him. Dean thought about the still. Today he’d harvest whatever alcohol it had produced, then dismantle the damn thing. Maybe he’d even try making pizza.

“That sounds like a good idea. I can be…”

Dean waved a hand. “I can handle it. You just relax.” The last thing he wanted was for Cas to know he’d deceived him for days just so he could scrape together his next drink. “If you’re looking to be useful, how about rustling up some breakfast? Extra pancakes, extra eggs, extra bacon?”

“That’s a lot of extra. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“Just extra bacon then? Pretty please? I’m friggin’ hungry.” Dean gave Cas’ hair a tousle.

Cas smiled, and his whole face seemed to be lit from within. Dean wondered if anyone had ever called him pretty before. “Okay then. Extra bacon.”

Outside Dean breathed in a lungful of air that smelled like fresh pine and moist peaty dirt. It had rained during the night. The hammer and chisel clanked together in his pocket as he strode toward the mine with the box tucked under his arm.


	9. Chapter 9

In the dark salt mine Chalmers heard the scuff and thump of boots against rock and came to full alert. Footsteps were coming closer, regular and purposeful. He retreated into the mine, scratching at his face and hands, drawing blood. The salt was burning like crazy now, blistering his skin, but none of that mattered. Dean Winchester was coming to him.

Sure, the boss would be disappointed when the magical weapon he’d invented failed to turn up. But lots of mystical crap was lost to the sands of time. Maybe they’d send someone to search the woods, but more likely they’d just move on.

Chalmers touched the knife at his belt and then drew his hand away. No. He’d start with his hands and take it nice and slow. He’d earned it.

* * *

Dean sniffed. The mine smelled different. Rotten. Maybe that meant the booze was ready. He walked along the passage to the small side room and hung his flashlight on a hook in the wall, bathing the room in a weak glow.

He’d dig a niche into the wall or floor in the far corner, push the box inside, and then seal it up. But first things first. He set the box and his tools on the floor and crouched over the still, feeling guilty. The alcohol that had dripped from the copper coil smelled awful, but it was as ready as it was going to get. He contemplated dumping the stinking booze and returning to the cabin, to that squeaking bed, and to Cas. One quick drink, bury the box, and then he’d go. They could eat breakfast and spend the day together. Maybe play some cards. Maybe kiss. Maybe more.

Suddenly hands were around his neck. There was an alarming precision in the way the fingers squeezed his carotids. He’d used this move enough himself to know it could knock someone out in seconds. He twisted in the firm grasp, flailing his legs. He felt the still go flying as his boot connected with it and he smelled the alcohol vapor filling the room. Another desperate kick sent the distilled alcohol pooling over the floor and soaking into the cold ashes. Fuck. So much for that last drink.

Dean struggled harder, glaring up into the black eyes of a demon dressed like a Park Ranger. It leaned into him, blocking his access to the Kurdish knife. He needed a new weapon and he needed it fast. Dean groped along the floor and his fingers closed around the chisel. He swung hard and fast, embedding it into the demon’s collarbone. The movement exhausted him, but it gave him the time he needed to grab his knife and push himself to a standing position, gasping and waiting.

The demon pulled the chisel from his meatsuit and advanced, looking like he’d like to carve Dean into something ugly. Dean put a hand to the wall for support, gripping the knife in his moist hand. His muscles felt like limp spaghetti. He considered praying to Cas, but held back. He mustn’t see the still. It’d break his heart.

He waited until the demon was within range and lashed out, too slow. It dodged, grabbed him by the jacket and threw him against the wall. Dean felt something snap in his arm, and the knife flew from his hand. The impact shattered the flashlight and the room plunged into darkness. Dean fought an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu as the demon grabbed him by the neck. Whether it was a warehouse in South Dakota or a mine in Michigan, maybe he was destined to end it all with a demon’s hands around his throat. Unlike the last time this happened, he found himself with regrets. He’d been so afraid of doing the wrong thing with Cas that he’d done nothing, and if he died now he’d never have the chance. He remembered the cabin and the look on Cas’ face when they’d danced, and the way he smiled when he promised extra bacon. Dean wrenched harder in the demon’s grasp. He wasn’t ready to die. Not yet, damn it.

As colors burst in his vision his good hand fumbled along the floor, desperate for the knife. His fingers found the dry wood of the box and for a moment he was tempted to fling it and keep searching. Then the idea came to him. Gripping it tightly, he smashed the box against the floor and felt it splinter in his hand. His fingers fumbled for the Purple Heart pin and for a terrifying moment he knew he would never find it in time. Then it was in his hand and he held it fast against the demon’s head.

Dean was prepared for the assault on his senses when he touched the pin, but the demon fell back screaming and clutching at his head. It was exactly what Dean needed. The alcohol vapor and lack of oxygen was getting to him. He stumbled from the dark room, fumbling for his zippo, then lit it and flung it behind him. He plunged toward the light outside, ricocheting off the tunnel, his lungs and muscles burning from the exertion, hoping he could get out before the alcohol vapor reached the flame. He pushed himself forward, diving for cover as he cleared the entry.

Inside the mine there was a roar and a burst of blue light that quickly extinguished itself. Dean went back inside, squinting into the dark for any sign of movement. He didn’t have to go far before he found the demon. The first piece of him, anyway. It took him three minutes to find his knife and it took another twenty to find and bury his father’s Purple Heart pin. Then, favoring his arm, he limped back to the cabin. It was time to stop being afraid.

* * *

Castiel was happier than he had been in a very long time. He counted the experiment with exposure therapy as a success. And afterwards, when Dean fell asleep, Castiel had laid next to him monitoring his breathing and soothing him when he seemed distressed. It had been a rewarding six hours. But if he was going to help Dean work through his traumatic memories he needed to have no illusions about what was happening between them. Dean had kissed him, danced with him, and they had shared a bed, but that didn’t mean that Dean returned his feelings. Judging from the hunter’s mating pattern, sexual interactions were a purely carnal transaction to him. Despite this knowledge Castiel found it difficult not to smile while making breakfast.

He heard the soft crunching of Dean’s boots on the path outside, and was reflecting on the change in gait when the door opened.

“I was about to come looking for you,” Castiel said. “Breakfast is—“ He stopped speaking when he noticed the grimace on Dean’s face and the way he was cradling his arm. “What happened?” He dropped the spatula on the counter, and hurried to assist.

“Got jumped by a demon at the salt mine.” Dean raised the hand on his good arm. “Relax. He’s dead.”

“I’m glad.” Cas ran his fingers over Dean’s arm, healing the break. “Breakfast is ready. Extra bacon like you asked.”

“Smells great.” Dean looked down at where Cas’ hand lingered on his arm. “Can it keep for a bit?”

“It can keep.” Cas remembered the previous evening and felt heat scurry across his skin.

“Then let it.” He cupped Cas’ jaw in his hand and leaned in. “I need my medicine.” Dean kissed him, and it was slow and relaxed, as if nothing was more important than the smooth slide of their lips and tongues. Castiel fought to keep his mind focused, to remind himself that this wasn’t about how Dean was making him feel. But it was a struggle. Dean was skilled and the deliberation and care he took reminded him of a diner in Cedar Rapids where he had watched Dean savor a slice of freshly-baked apple pie. Dean’s hands slid to his waist and then up his back, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and pulling him closer. And then suddenly Dean was dragging him into the bedroom.

Castiel moaned—as much as was possible with Dean’s tongue in his mouth. It was getting increasingly difficult to think clearly. His vessel’s brain, he noted, made up only 2% of his body weight, yet it used 15-20% of his body's blood supply. Each minute it required 29 fluid ounces of blood to maintain its oxygen supply. Given the direction his blood was flowing now he wondered if he should be concerned about cell damage, and then he found that he suddenly didn’t care. That itself was likely evidence of cell damage.

Dean pulled back.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asked, personally affronted by whatever might be causing this break in the kissing.

“I…I don’t wanna hurt you. I mean,” he looked at the floor, “you saw what’s in my head. It’s all tangled up in there. I’m worried I’ll….I’m just worried.”

Castiel smirked. “I have a superhuman pain threshold and angelic healing ability. Unless your plan involves holy oil and a wood chipper I think we’re safe.”

Dean smiled sheepishly. “Point taken. Still. Go slow, okay?”

“I’ve drafted a schedule.” Seeing the confusion on Dean’s face Cas continued. “I ordered your memories of Hell by degree of emotional distress. I propose we work on reducing the emotions associated with the least traumatic first and work our way up.”

“Sexual rehab.”

“If you like.”

“I like. But there is no way I am getting through this without a little help.”

Castiel looked away. “If you’re referring to alcohol, Dean, that’s not a good idea.”

“Not what I had in mind.” Dean stretched a hand out to the radio and turned a knob until he heard the familiar rumble of AC/DC’s Jailbreak coming over the Detroit station. Hell hadn’t been big on classic rock. It would help remind him where he really was. “Okay,” Dean said. “We should work out a safeword. In case I need to stop. And I call big spoon.”

Castiel hummed deeply as Dean buried his face into his neck and began to lick and bite.

“I like the idea of a word for stopping,” he said, hissing in a breath, “but I don’t understand your remark about cutlery.”

Dean’s voice was slightly muffled but Castiel’s hearing was extraordinary. “How ‘bout if I say ‘salt’ we tap the breaks, and if I say ‘burn’ we stop fast and hard?”

Castiel nodded, the word ‘fast’ and ‘hard’ taking on new meaning as Dean’s hips bucked against him. “Dean,” he said, the admonishment in his voice somewhat undercut by his breathlessness, “I’m supposed to be walking you safely through a recreation of a traumatic memory.”

“We did that yesterday.” Dean mumbled into Castiel’s collarbone. “Turn around’s fair play.”

“It’s hardly turnaround. I haven’t got traum—oh!” The rest of his thought was lost as Dean’s hands left his hips and moved south past the waistband of his pants.

Dean pulled back. “I’m good to take this up a notch. Or ten. Waddaya say?”

“Yes.” Castiel looked at him with glassy eyes, his lips swollen. “Ten notches, please.”

Dean leapt onto the bed and pulled off his jeans. “Well? Am I gonna have to start without you?”

“No.” Castiel stared at him for a moment as Dean pulled off his shirt “You’re definitely not.”

* * *

It was dark outside now, Dean noticed. He felt boneless and exhausted, and the radio was playing the languid chords of the Stones’ song, Laugh I Nearly Died.

“This was a great idea.” Dean pulled Cas to his chest and ran his fingers through the angel’s hair, spiking it in odd directions.

Cas smiled slowly, and his face glowing with accomplishment. “This was my idea.”

“Well, it was a good one. We should’a done this years ago, the first time you showed up in that barn.”

Cas smiled. “It would have been a warmer welcome than a knife in the chest. But I doubt I’d have appreciated it as much as I do now. And it might have alarmed Bobby.”

“Yeah it would.” He leaned in and planted a soft kiss on the tip of Cas’ nose. “So we’re gonna do this again?” It was a question, but he made it sound like a decision.

* * *

Eight days after they’d gone to Michigan Dean and Castiel materialized in Bobby Singer’s salvage yard. Sam, who had been waiting on the porch, approached cautiously. Just because Dean had dried out didn’t mean he was going to be pleased about it. Dean didn’t take deception very well. Sam estimated there was a 50% chance that Dean would try to slug him.

“Dean.” He reached out to take Dean’s duffel and Dean let him. That was a good sign. Make that a 40% chance of slugging. “Good to have you back. How’re you feeling?”

“Like twenty pounds of awesome in a five pound bag. And hungry as hell.” Dean pushed past him toward the house, Castiel trailing behind.

Sam smiled tentatively. His brother had looked happy, which was a little weird considering what he’d just been through. Sam had almost gotten used to the idea of Dean’s scowl being permanent. This Dean looked years younger.

“Castiel?” Sam put a hand on the angel’s shoulder, halting him on the porch. If Dean was so happy maybe things hadn’t gone according to plan.

“Yes,” Castiel said, seeing Sam’s questioning look. “Dean is probably hungry.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Technically, he was asking about Dean’s withdrawal symptoms, but what he’d seen of Dean’s memories ran a close second.

Castiel looked as if he were recalling something pleasant. “Dean has a lot of work still to do but I consider the trip a success.”

Sam let out a heavy breath and relief flooded through him.

“Sammy!” Dean yelled from inside. “Get your ass in here and tell me why I see low fat cold cuts where regular cold cuts oughta’ be!”

Sam couldn’t wipe the grin off his face as he followed them inside. He had his brother back.

* * *

“The whole house will hear us if we do it again,” Cas warned, his voice a heavy whisper. “You are very loud.”

“Screw it.” Dean slapped the plaster. “These walls are pretty thick. They don’t build ‘em like this anymore.” He grabbed a fistful of Cas’ disheveled hair and pulled him within kissing range.

Castiel’s head swam. Being on the receiving end of Dean’s attention was exhilarating. The physical sensations were more intense than he’d anticipated, and he’d struggled to stay focused on Dean’s emotional and mental status. On several occasions he’d been subdued by his vessel’s reaction to Dean’s attentions. He understood now his father’s wisdom in making sexual union so pleasurable. It definitely encouraged repetition. And the intimacy had been unexpected. He’d never felt this level of helpless need he had when Dean moved inside of him, mumbling words of love and reverence. When he’d lost control Dean had held him and whispered his name like a mantra.

The next morning Dean padded into the kitchen, put bread into the toaster and started heating a pan on the stove. He’d just noticed there was a pot of coffee made when his brother stepped in from the porch and refilled his mug.

“Late night.” Sam’s tone held an edge of judgment and his face was twitching in the effort to hold back undiluted bitchface.

Dean broke an egg into the hot pan then reached in to scoop out a piece of shell. “Just keeping up my neuron pathways.” He dropped in strips of bacon and jumped back from the spitting fat.

“Well, could you do it quieter?” Sam’s voice had a raspy edge. “Some of us would like to sleep between midnight and three a.m.”

Dean grinned. “Is this weirding you out? Me and Cas? It is, isn’t it?”

“No. I get it.” Sam smiled, with a hint of exhaustion. “You and Cas, you’re like Tony Stark and Steve Rogers.”

“Tony Stark,” Dean’s forehead wrinkled. The name was familiar. It would come to him. It did, just as his toast popped up. “Ironman?”

“Yeah. And Rogers is Captain America.”

“Okay.” Dean nodded thoughtfully as he buttered the toast. “But I’m Ironman in this scenario, right?”

“Obviously.”

Dean smiled, picturing himself as Robert Downey Junior. “I can live with that.” He grabbed the pan by the handle and slid the eggs and bacon onto a plate.

Sam reached out and snatched a strip of bacon, tossed it quickly into his mouth and chewed.

“Well live with it at a lower volume, Jerk, or you’re getting a ball gag for Christmas.” He moved toward the doorway. “If anyone needs me I’ll be upstairs, taking a nap. Wake me for lunch. We’re getting takeout and you’re buying.”

“Come on! That’s not fair,” Dean called to his brother’s retreating back. “I’m traumatized, Sammy.” He muttered “Bitch” under his breath but his lips were curled into a smile as he settled himself at the kitchen table with his breakfast. Today was going to be a good day.


End file.
